


Collisions and Reconciliations

by callandra



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, I hate tagging, Sigrid/Fili briefly mentioned, i suck at summaries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2018-09-02 07:14:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 65,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8656216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callandra/pseuds/callandra
Summary: An unexpected encounter in Mirkwood brings a woman back to the last place and the last person she ever wanted to see. Getting away isn't so easy the second time around.





	1. It begins

**Author's Note:**

> This decided to make camp in my mind, so I figured I'd better get it out. As always, I don't own anything that is recognizable from books or movies, I'm just taking it out for a spin.

The boat continued its way down the river, its occupants unaware that they’d been followed the moment they’d entered the forest.  Only two kept a wary eye on the river’s edge as they moved.  The others sate in groups, talking and arguing among themselves, save for the woman lying on the pallet and the boy beside her.  She was very nearly unconscious, tossing her head in agitation. Another woman huddled over her, brushing damp hair out of the way.

“Can you hear me, Bronwehel?”

Ionien received no acknowledgment from the woman.  They could not be far from the elves’ halls.  She’d hoped to reach Laketown before nightfall, but the elf woman had taken a turn for the worse.  If left to return home on their own, she and the boy would surely die. Ionien could not have that on her conscience.

“Pull into that dock.”

The bargeman nodded his understanding and the barge slowed.  She hated even the idea of what she was about to do, but she knew she had little choice.  She would not risk the lives of everyone on this ship. She would simply have to take Bronwehel and Lostion to the elves, and then travel to Dale without the rest of the group.  Feredir could see them safely to Laketown, and meet her after.  The elven healers should be able to take care of their own.

“What are you thinking?”

“I will take them on foot, join you later.”

It was dangerous to move the elf in this state, but it would be worse to leave her.  She’d run out of athelas the day before, and there’d been no opportunity to search for more.  No one else on the barge was a healer and Bronwehel couldn’t be left alone.  Nor did Ionien trust any of the others to search out the plant she needed.  Most of those rescued from the slave trade in the Northern Wastes were uninterested in helping each other. They wanted only to reach free land and be left to their own devices.  She would be happy to be rid of a good many of them at the rebuilt Laketown.  The rest would be with them until they reached Dale, but they would be far fewer in number.

“You’re not going alone.”

“I am.  You must lead the rest of them safely down the river. This forest is dangerous.”

“Which is why I’m coming with you.  You cannot see to the two of them and protect yourself.  You need me.”

“Mellessil needs you more.”

It was far too dangerous for one as young as Mellessil to travel through the forest, with the creatures that roamed it.  In taking Bronwehel back to her own people, Ionien was leaving her own child.  She would be much safer continuing on to Dale with the others.

“Bronwehel’s in no condition to walk,” Feredir commented, bringing her focus back to her patient, “She’ll need a litter, and you’ve no time to make one.”

She hated to admit it, but Feredir was correct.  There was no time to spare in cutting wood enough to make a frame, and no trustworthy material to cover it.  Not to mention the fact that dragging a litter through the forest would certainly attract attention, and while it would be a good thing if the elves found them, drawing the attention of the spiders in the canopy would be a fatal error. She would not be able to take them alone.

“You’ll have to carry her. It can’t be far to the elvenking’s halls.”

The barge slowed to a stop at the dock, and Ionien collected their things, stowing them in her bag.  The barge would need to continue on to Esgaroth; they wouldn’t be able to wait.  It was dangerous to linger in Mirkwood.

“Once we’re off, continue on your way,” she instructed the bargeman, “We’ll catch up in Dale.”

“You can’t mean you’re leaving us!”

Ionien looked to the man who’d called out. The self-appointed leader of the first group she’d collected had been a continual nuisance.  His demands for some sort of preference over the later people she’d liberated reminded her very much of Alfrid. He was the same witless weasel whose only interest was in what he could acquire.

“You’ll reach Laketown by tomorrow, and those continuing on to Dale will reach it the next day. There is little risk of danger.”

“You don’t know that!  You don’t know what could be waiting for us down the river!”

“Then I suggest you stop trying to draw attention to yourself, Hindley, and be ready to use those sword skills you claim to have,” came Feredir’s sharp retort.  Ionien was grateful for his interruption.  She didn’t think she could endure anything else that would come from Hindley’s lips.  Why hadn’t she simply left him in the North and washed her hands of him?

“You can’t kill him,” Feredir warned her softly in Easterling.  Her thoughts must be showing on her face again.  Hindley would be aggravating enough to make even Lord Elrond lose his composure.

“Why not?  He might have an accident and fall overboard.”

“We have more important concerns that Hindley.”

That was true.  They had to deliver Bronwehel and her son to the elves, so she could be healed by her own.  And then they had to get away from the elves before their presence became common knowledge.

“Lostion, come.”

The boy looked from his mother to the others on the deck who were now staring at them.  Hindley looked nearly apoplectic at being so dismissed, especially in front of the others.  Ionien ignored him as she handed Mellessil to the care of Helmund, who would guard the child as if she was his own.  There was no one else she would trust with the safety of her daughter since Feredir was coming with her.

“We’ll meet again soon, in Dale. Bard will take care of you until we return.”

Helmund accepted the instruction with a nod, and held the girl tightly so that she couldn’t try to follow her parents.  Feredir lifted Bronwehel into his arms, and Ionien shouldered their things and took Lostion’s hand before stepping off the barge.  She watched the boat push away from the dock and back into the current, before setting off into the woods.

They walked not more than two minutes before they were surrounded by elves, all of whom had arrows pointed at their heads.

“One more step will be your last,” the blond ellon in front of her warned.  Ionien pushed Lostion behind her and held up her hands in a gesture of non-hostility. There were too many to fight, and to fight would risk injury to Bronwehel or the boy.

“We intend no harm.  We bring a woman in need of healing.”

“A mortal woman is nothing to us.  Return to your boat and be on your way.”

“She is no mortal. She is elder, and she is one of your people. We were bringing her here when she fell ill.”

“Elves do not fall ill.  You lie, woman.”

“See for yourself,” she nodded her head towards Feredir, “I speak the truth.”

She hoped Feredir wouldn’t do anything rash.  Even if they were both Rangers, they were too greatly outnumbered.  If they had not a sick woman and a child it might be possible, but not with such burdens.  The pale-haired elf glared at her, but did not back from the challenge.  He roughly pushed her aside, into the grasp of a waiting elf, to see the woman Feredir held in his arms. Feredir wisely did not interfere.  Ionien was witness to the utter shock that froze the ellon’s words in his throat.

“Bronwehel,” he breathed, and to Ionien’s surprise the elleth stirred.  The elf jerked her from Feredir’s hold into his own arms.  Ionien unleashed a torrent of obscenities at his back.  He could very well have just undone all of her hard work to keep Bronwehel alive with his treatment of her.  His only response was to order his companions to bring them along before he sped through the woods, leaving them all behind.

Ionien had several curses for her captor, who shoved her ahead of him. She took hold of the child’s hand as they marched through the wood, occasionally looking back to Feredir when she heard the sounds of a scuffle.  Somehow they must get free of this place.

Thranduil looked to his newest acquisitions with a mild distaste.  The bold of vibrant yellow silk reminded him of the roses his wife once grew, but it was terribly ill-suited for any of the elves under his domain.  And the exquisitely wrought silver crown was most decidedly for a woman.  His keen eye for beauty ensured that anything he bought from the human traders was indeed lovely, but these articles were practically useless to him.  It was only his goodwill towards the king of Dale that compelled his purchase; he would not see the families of those Men starve for want of a sale.

Perhaps he would gift these items to Arwen Undomiel.  Elrond’s daughter would be much better suited for them than any elleth in Mirkwood.  Yes, he would send these things to Imladris.  If nothing else, Lord Elrond’s reactions upon receipt of such gifts from the Elvenking, meant for his daughter, would be worth the effort.

“My lord,” he looked up from the articles to see Tauriel standing in the doorway.  Her banishment only recently lifted, she’d been returned to her status as captain after proving herself with the guard again.

“You saw the merchants safely to the river?”

“The guard should return any moment. There has been little trouble with spiders the last few weeks. Legolas believes we may have destroyed them.”

“But you do not believe it.”

He could see from her expression that she did not agree with his son’s assessment.

“They came from Dol Guldur, aran.  If we could go to the source I believe we could eradicate them, but we still have not left our borders.”

“And yet they have been much fewer in number the last few years.  I will not risk sending our people into Dol Guldur when we are keeping them from our lands.”

He wasn’t foolish enough to think that Tauriel’s nod of acceptance meant she would leave the issue alone.  She was far more likely to find a group of the guard as reckless as she and go to Dol Guldur without his approval. He would admire her spirit more did he not know she still mourned the loss of her dwarf.  More than ten years had passed since Thorin Oakenshield and his company passed through Mirkwood, and still Tauriel threw herself into patrolling and battles to erase the thoughts of one passing dwarf from her mind.  Thranduil could not understand her fascination with the creatures.

“Would that my son had pledged himself to you years ago.”

She might only be a common Silvan elf, but she had many admirable qualities.  Perhaps, had he not prohibited Legolas from pursuing her, his son might not have been gone for ten years?

If Tauriel was surprised by his change of heart, she did not show it.  He might have to see to it that the pair spent more time together.  Legolas might help her get over the dwarf.  They were interrupted when the door to the study was kicked open and Legolas burst in, a woman in his arms.

“Legolas?!”

“It is Bronwehel!”

Thranduil shot up from the desk at that announcement. Bronwehel had been gone for over four hundred years.  How was it possible that Legolas carried her now?  His mind could not comprehend, as he stared at the burden Legolas so gently carried, that it was indeed her.  His daughter-by-marriage, taken centuries ago during the raid that killed his oldest son.

“Bronwehel.”

She gave only the barest indication that she’d heard, and Thranduil laid a hand to her head.  She was burning up with fever.

“Get her to a room immediately. Tauriel, retrieve the healer.”

He followed Legolas as they ran from the study.  The sprint to the private chambers seemed to take an eternity before they reached the room that had once been his son’s.  Thranduil had never been able to bring himself to assign it to another, not even those distant relations who might have claim to the royal bloodline.

“How did you find her?”

He gently brushed the light brown hair from her face. She wasn’t battered and bloody, for which he was thankful.  The sight of this gentle elleth, beaten, would have been more than he could bear.

“Two mortals brought her on a boat, not long after we set the merchants from Dale on their way.  We had no yet left the area when they landed.”

“Where are the mortals now?”

“I ordered Berenon to take them to the dungeons. They can be kept there until you choose to see them.”

Good.  He had no time to deal with the mortals now, but he most certainly intended to interrogate them.  They could sit in the dungeons for a time; they could cause no harm in there. He would not allow unknown mortals to roam his halls freely.

The healer arrived in only a few minutes, and looked utterly shocked to learn who his patient was.  Ever professional, he simply ordered Thranduil and Legolas out of his way so he could examine her. Thranduil stood impatiently by as the healer worked, leaning against the wall.  It seemed impossible that Bronwehel should be here, and alive. There were so many questions that needed to be answered, once she was able.

“Boy, bring me athelas, now.”

There were few who could address Legolas with such impunity, but he didn’t question the healer.  He hurried to do as he was ordered, heading for the healing halls. Edraithon must not have brought enough of the plant with him. He ignored the stares and questions of the elves he passed, his focus solely on his task.  He surprised the healers still in the hall; those few apprentices Edraithon had decided would likely not kill their patients.

“Is there something you require, my prince?”

“Athelas.  Edraithon requires it.  Immediately.”

The elleth who’d questioned him nodded and retrieved a good amount of the weed from a medicine chest.  She placed it in a basket and handed it to Legolas, who left without even a word of thanks.  She shrugged at his unusual behavior and returned to her work.

Legolas returned to the chamber with the plant, half afraid Bronwehel had died during his brief absence.  His brother’s wife had always been a gentle creature, uncomfortable with combat in any form, even defense.  How had she survived four centuries’ captivity? The day his brother fell and she disappeared was forever etched in the prince’s memory.  The orc attack had taken everyone by surprise, the disgusting creatures somehow able to infiltrate Eryn Lasgalen undetected.

“She is weak,” Edraithon informed Thranduil unnecessarily, “and she appears to have lost a child recently, which seems to be the cause of her illness.”

Legolas and Thranduil both froze.  It was one thing to know abstractly that in four centuries Bronwehel had likely been violated, but to have evidence of it made that fact all the more real.  What tortures had this gentle elleth suffered?

“Can you heal her?”

Healing her was their only concern.  The cause of the injury wasn’t important.  

“I believe that she will recover.  Someone has already gone to great lengths to try to heal her.  If not for that fact, it is likely she would not still be alive.”

The mortal woman must have tried to heal her.  It explained why she cursed him when he took Bronwehel from the human.  It did not, however, explain how she spoke Sindarin.  Judging from their clothes, they neither came from Dale nor had the coin necessary to trade with the elves.  Very few humans spoke the elven tongue outside of necessity.  Legolas was more determined than ever to get some answers from his captives.

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­Ionien spat a particularly malicious insult at the elf that locked them in the cell.  While the boy was allowed to stay with her, Feredir was held separately.  She supposed she should be thankful she didn’t know the elf, but she couldn’t count on that good fortune to last.   They must escape before she was recognized.

“Where is my mother?”

“I am certain they took her to a healer, Lostion.”

She could offer no other reassurance, and again cursed these Woodland elves.  She’d met orcs with better manners than theirs. But she did not doubt that Bronwehel had gone to a healer.  The ellon who took her clearly recognized her, and Ionien knew concern when she saw it.  She took a seat on the stone slab that likely served as both bench and bed, and pulled the worried boy to sit with her.

“If the healer is at all competent, your mother will be well.  She was already much better.”

Surely such a small deception would not count against her, not when it was meant to give the boy some measure of peace. Bronwehel was much improved from the loss of the child, but her body was still not healing as it should.  Lostion didn’t need to know that, however.  Better not to frighten the boy into thinking he would be an orphan when rest and proper treatment WOULD see his mother’s recovery.

Her thoughts turned to the others expecting their return.  There were nearly fifty people squeezed into the barge, and river was not the safest place to wait.  With both she and Feredir gone they’d lost their primary source of protection, and orcs and spiders still found their way into these woods.  Would those few experienced with battle be able to keep the rest safe?  Even if they encountered no orcs they were still close to Mirkwood, and these elves were not showing themselves to be hospitable.  Ionien had little doubt the blonde-haired captain would imprison all of them without asking any questions first if he found them.

“Are you injured, Feredir?”

“Only bruises,” came the answer from the cell beside them. That was good.  Serious injuries would only slow them down.  She’d worried when his struggling with their elven captors had turned truly violent.

“We must leave here as soon as possible,’ she said in Easterling, hoping these wood elves didn’t speak the language.

“It will not be so easy to escape these cells,” was the answer she received. That was a fact she was well aware of. She had memories of shoving captured slavers into them for safekeeping, when their offenses were greatest against the elves.  Still, they must find a way out before Thranduil learned that she was here.

“We must find a way.”

Bard would look after Mellessil, but she could not leave her daughter with the human indefinitely.  She couldn’t idly by and let the child lose both of her parents; they must do something to free themselves. 

They’d been disarmed before they were shoved into the cells, and a guard standing outside prevented her from picking the lock. There was no way to disarm the guard who kept the keys, even if she could manage to lure him to the door.  With a yell of frustration she shook the bars, knowing it would do no good but needing to do something.

It was only when she turned back to see Lostion staring nervously at her that she noticed what she should have seen long before.  A large gash ran nearly the length of the boy’s forearm.  It must have happened during the struggle from the boat to this cell, but Lostion never said a word.  Indeed, he appeared to not even have noticed it.  Ionien immediately returned to the door.

“Guard!”

A copper-haired elf appeared after only a few minutes, a glare on his face that might have intimidated lesser people.

“What do you want?”

“A basin of water and clean rages, quickly.  The child is injured.”

“A mortal child is nothing to us,” the elf answered with an expression of near disgust on his face as he looked at Lostion.  “The injury is not fatal.”

“You are blind if you cannot see that the boy is of the elder,” she hissed at him as she gestured to the slightly pointed ears that proved the child wasn’t fully human, “and I very much doubt your commander will be pleased to know you ignored the injuries of the child of a woman he so clearly cared for!”

“What is the disturbance?” a female voice interrupted, and the guard turned his attention from Ionien to answer. He dropped the Common Tongue and spoke in rapid Sindarin.  Ionien assumed that he believed she wouldn’t understand.  The elleth grew closer, and the one she’d identified as Berenon answered with the explanation Ionien had just given him, his tone saying quite plainly what he thought of it.

“Fetch some water and clean rags,” she heard the elleth order, “if the child is injured it will be seen to.”

Ionien felt a sinking in her gut as she recognized that voice. Any hope of getting away before being recognized died when familiar features entered her field of vision. Tauriel’s eyes widened almost comically when she saw who they held prisoner.

“You!”

Ionien was just as surprised to see Tauriel.  When last she saw the red-haired captain, she was leaving the Greenwood for banishment, still in mourning over the loss of Kili.   She wondered what would have possessed Tauriel to return, or Thranduil to allow her back. Of all the elves she could have encountered in the halls, Tauriel’s was the last face she ever expected to see.

“You dare show your face here?!”

If she had any hope that Tauriel was unaware of events she’d prefer to keep hidden, it was crushed with that accusation.  She had not thought it would be made public, but it would seem that Tauriel at least knew something of what happened. Had Thranduil truly confided in an elleth that he’d run off?

“I never intended to return here, Tauriel.  Release me, and no one need ever know that I passed through.”

It was a desperate hope, really, that Tauriel might let her go.  She must escape before Thranduil learned she was here, but she knew that Tauriel was not her ally in that endeavor.  The elleth’s loyalty was to her king, not a passing peredhel.

Tauriel shook her head vehemently as the one called Berenon returned with the ordered water. He must not have had far to go.  The pitcher of water and the rags were passed through the bars of the cell and Ionien took them, turning her attention back to the boy.  Lostion didn’t seem to notice his injury until she began to clean it with the water.  Once all the dirt was removed, she held her hand over the injury, chanting until it healed.  Tauriel watched in the same fascination she’d shown before.

“Is the boy truly Bronwehel’s son?”

“He is.”

One need only see the two together to see that they were mother and son.

“The king will not be pleased.”

“Tauriel, please.  He cannot know that I’m here.”

If she had any hope of escape, it must happen while Thranduil was unaware of her.  If he knew she was in his kingdom, he would have no chance. He would hunt her down.

“The boy will go to his mother,”Tauriel finally decided, “you will remain here.”

“No, Tauriel, do not do this!”

The door was opened, and Berenon stepped in only enough to grab Lostion by the arm and drag him out.  It was slammed closed again when she would have stepped through.

“Tauriel!”

She was ignored as Tauriel escorted the boy from the dungeons. Ionien could hear her warn Berenon that they were not to be set loose, on pain of punishment by the king. She bit back a curse and sank onto the stone slab.

“We must escape here, Feredir.”

“He’s here, isn’t he?”

She froze at the quiet question. Never before had Feredir mentioned—

“At first I thought it was one of Elrond’s sons, but it wasn’t, was it?”

“No.”

The idea of Elladan or Elrohir—impossible.  It would be her eternal shame that anyone had been possible, but the sons of Elrond….such a thing would be as bad as if it was Elrond himself. 

“We must find a way out.  Our daughter is depending on us.”

 

Thranduil looked up from his post at Bronwehel’s side.  He’d sent Legolas off to question the mortals, but ordered his work brought to him.  He would not leave his daughter-by-marriage until she woke.

“What is this?”

Tauriel had interrupted him to bring in a child.  What was she thinking?!

“This is Lostion.  He is Bronwehel’s son.”

He froze, astonished.  Bronwehel’s child?  Impossible.  That would make this boy the child of whatever mortal bastard had dared keep her prisoner.  Yes, the eyes looking mistrustfully at him were Bronwehel’s.

“Is she—“

“The healer says that she is very ill, but she should recover.”

Edraithon had been less optimistic once Legolas departed, but still held hope that Bronwehel would eventually be well.  There was no way to know what she’d suffered, and so he could not be sure he had addressed everything until she woke.  She would be monitored constantly until then.

The boy climbed on the bed beside his mother.  Thranduil thought to chastise him for disturbing her, but decided against it.  Bronwehel would choose to keep her child with her, if she was conscious. With a nod, Tauriel was dismissed.  She could aid Legolas in investigating the mortals if she wished, or she could seek her own rest, but she was not needed in this place any longer.  He was perfectly capable of looking after one half-mortal child.

“What is your name, boy?”

“Lostion.”

Keeping the child distracted could only be helpful.  The boy looked as if he might fall asleep at any moment; Thranduil was certain that it was only concern for his mother that kept the boy awake. If Lostion did manage to sleep, he could cause no trouble.

“How did you and your mother escape?”

“We didn’t escape!  We weren’t prisoners!  When father died, naneth wanted to come back here.”

It sounded to Thranduil as though Bronwehel had managed to keep her status concealed, and that the boy’s father had treated them kindly.  He could not imagine an elleth willing joining with a mortal.  Further questioning proved that there was little information the boy could provide that Thranduil found of interest.  Lostion knew only where they had lived with his father; in the desert and that before he’d died they had been on a very long journey from the desert to a very cold mountain. That told him nothing.  He trusted that Legolas would fare better in his questioning.

XXXXXXXXXXX

The boy still slept when Legolas returned.  Thranduil gave a swift glance to Bronwehel, who seemed to be resting easier, before turning to his son.

“Did you learn anything?”

Legolas’ tale supported the child’s claims, if the mortal woman was to be believed.  She’d relayed a story of rescuing enslaved people from the Northern Wastes and returning them home.  That at least supported the claim that they’d been on a cold mountain before coming south.  Thranduil found it difficult to digest that Bronwehel might choose to bind herself to a mortal man, but could not flatly refute it any longer.  She might, in her gratitude to one who’d freed her from slavery, do anything he suggested, including marry.

“Do you believe that these mortals had nothing to do with her captivity?”

“There is little to gain, and much to risk, from a lie so easily disproved.”

That was true.  They need only ask Bronwehel’s son for his full story to disprove a lie.  Thranduil looked to the still sleeping boy.  This Lostion would have a difficult life here.  His darker skin proved his parentage; his father clearly a desert dweller.  No matter what edicts Thranduil might issue, or what punishments he might mete out, he knew full well that there would be those who treated the child badly because of his heritage if they could get away with it. They would simply attempt to conceal their tormenting from prying eyes.

Bronwehel groaned, and both father and son turned their attention to her.  Thranduil considered calling for Edraithon again, but decided against it.  He’d been warned that she would still experience discomfort, despite being unconscious.  He could not summon the healer for every little hurt.

“The mortal woman did try to heal her,” Legolas offered in the silence, “We most likely owe her Bronwehel’s life.”

Thranduil knew his son was correct.  Edraithon had been very clear on that. Bronwehel would have died without the attention she received.  Still, the idea of being beholden to a mortal was grating.

“I will see that they are compensated before they are released.”

Much as he would like to set them on their way and bar the doors after them, he would see the woman well paid for her services to Bronwehel.  He would not have it said that he left a debt unsettled. 

He knew he was being unfair to these mortals he’d never met.  There had been a time when such would have been received as acknowledged guests.  He blamed the havoc wrought by the dwarves for his refusal to allow unknown entities to roam his halls any longer.

“I believe she would consider their release to be adequate compensation.”

No doubt she would.  And perhaps he should release them.  He had no evidence they had done anything to harm Bronwehel.  Indeed, the mortal woman had guarded and tended to the boy when he was in the cell.  He could send them on their way with supplies to continue on their journey, a few bottles of Dorwinion, and some gold, and never see them again.  It would be the wise thing to do.

“I will consider it.”

For the moment, the mortals were a minor concern.  Among his papers was a letter from Bard, concerning a new trade agreement proposed by the dwarves.  Fili was proving to be a capable ruler, but the years spent rebuilding by both Man and Dwarf meant that many changes were coming.  Things were only now beginning to settle in Dale and Erebor.

The elves had provided a great deal of aid to get the humans to this point, and now it was time for repayment.  He and Bard had already worked out an agreement that would allow Dale to make payments without emptying their treasury entirely, and in turn Mirkwood received first choice of anything offered for trade.  The debt might not be settled in Bard’s lifetime, but Thranduil could afford to be patient.  He wouldn’t be responsible for an entire people starving.

He was uncertain of this treaty with dwarves.  He could not trust them so easily.  Who was to say that the dragon sickness that consumed Oakenshield would not also infect Fili? The line of Durin fell too easily to the sickness of greed.  Oakenshield had declared war on Man and Elf alike to hold onto the gold of Erebor.  The fact that Fili was generous in his giving today did not mean that he wouldn’t be stricken down tomorrow. 

When the boy stirred an hour later Thranduil reconsidered the wisdom of allowing him to stay in the bed with his mother.  Bronwehel moaned as the child’s elbow made contact with her side.  If he was only going to aggravate her injuries, he could not be allowed to remain beside her.  Coming to a decision, Thranduil set his work aside and stepped to the bed to remove the boy.  He would put Lostion in the next room, where he could sleep comfortably, but still be close to his mother.

“No!  I’m not leaving her!”

The boy started to struggle when he couldn’t break Thranduil’s grip.

“Your mother must rest, penneth, and your movements hurt her.  You will sleep in the next room.  The healers can do their work without disturbing either of you, and you will still be near.”

“I don’t want your healers!  I want Ionien!”

Thranduil froze, nearly loosening his grip on the child.  Surely it couldn’t be—

“This Ionien you speak of.  Who are they?”

“A ranger, and healer.  She travelled with us from the North, and healed mother.  I don’t want your healers, I want her!”

It must be her.  Surely there could be no other who fit such a description.  It was his Ionien, and the Valar had seen fit to bring her back to his halls.

“Stay here,” he ordered the child as he set him on his feet and hurried out the door.  His mind raced with questions unanswered as he stalked through the halls towards the cells.  How could Legolas mistake her for a mortal?  Why was she passing through his lands?  Most importantly, why did she run from him ten years ago?  That question he’d asked himself over and over during the last decade.  Tonight he would finally have an answer.


	2. Encounters

_“It looks as though we missed the fighting.”_

_Ionien looked from the charred remnants of Laketown, and the carcass of a dragon, to her companions.  Elladan and Elrohir were not normally the best of travelling companions, but she could count on them to defy their father’s orders not to track the dwarves from Imladris.  She simply could not remain cloistered in Lord Elrond’s healing halls when Thorin Oakenshield was marching doom to the people of Laketown.  She would not leave Bard and the children in such danger without going to join them.  If things went as badly as she feared, they would need another sword, and a healer._

_“I have a feeling that there may still be fighting aplenty, Elladan.”_

_The survivors of this destruction would have fled across the lake.  If they were able to move, they would make their way to Erebor and Dale.  Ionien hoped that they would at least have the good sense to stay away from that mountain, and its cursed gold._

_“We must go around to the opposite shore.”_

_To do so was to waste valuable time, but Ionien could see for herself that there was no other way.  There were no boats on the shore, and even if they swam to the remnants of the town, there would be no boats there. Laketown was abandoned._

_“Let us waste no more time then.”_

_With a word, she pointed her horse in the right direction and let him go.  Elladan and Elrohir were right behind her.  She must find Bard and the children.  They would be among the survivors.  They had to be.  She saw the black arrow that protruded from Smaug’s remains; no one else could have fired it._

_“You’ll not reach them faster by pushing your horse to death,” Elrohir commented as he pulled up alongside her, then grabbed the reins and slowed both their horses down.  He was right, and she felt ashamed.  She could not run one of Elrond’s horses into the ground simply to try to make up time that she could never make.  The faithful animals could travel only so far, and to push them would be cruel._

_“I must find them.”_

_“And you will.  I am certain of it.  But the journey will take even longer on foot. Do not injure the horse.”_

_“Of course.”_

_She continued at the pace that Elrohir set, and as they moved into the thick grasses, it was good thing that she did.  It would be far too easy for the horses to get tangled in the grass and break a leg.  If she hurt her mount, she would never be able to return to Imladris; Elrond would kill her._

_The path the survivors had taken was obvious once they reached the opposite shoreline.  A large swath of land had been trampled from so many feet walking across it.  At least it would be easy to track them; they were headed to Dale.  They ruined city would be the only place that could possibly provide shelter for any significant number of people._

_“They will not last long in an abandoned city,” Elladan commented as they began to follow the trail. “Winter is coming, and they will not be prepared.”_

_That would be a concern for later.  The concern for the moment was finding Bard and the children alive and whole.  She could murder Thorin Oakenshield for all the devastation he caused in his pursuit of power._

_“There is a battle waging,” Elrohir spoke after nearly an hour’s silent riding, “I can hear it.”_

_Were they truly fighting already?   She’d hoped for at least a few days before the inevitable conflict that surrounded treasure.  Many would seek entrance to that mountain once word spread of Smaug’s death.  Such wealth always tempted the greedy.  Had the Master already made an attempt to claim it? Surely the people had more important things to do, such as putting a roof over their heads._

_“Men never learn from their mistakes.”_

_Ionien fought back a snort at that declaration. Elrohir spoke as if that trait was exclusive to Men.  As though Dwarves and even Elves on occasion, did not suffer the same affliction.  Every race seemed to want to take the easy road when it was presented._

_“If Oakenshield reached the mountain, he’d not lightly part with any of the treasure within.”_

_Her head was shaking before she was ever conscious of it. Dragon sickness had claimed Thorin’s grandfather and father.  It the disease was catching, Thorin doubtless already felt it.  It was a terrible thing to watch a person suffering from dragon sickness.  Someone who was once a reasonable person descended into a madness that left them able to see nothing but treasure.  Oakenshield, if he was living, would dig down into all the gold in the mountain and ignore the rest of the world._

_The prospect of fighting spurred the twin ellon into action, urging the horses to move faster.  As they drew closer, it became obvious that this was not a small skirmish between the survivors of Laketown and a group of dwarves.  This was a great battle._

_A woman was running from the ruins of the city.  Ionien watched dispassionately as she passed by, then froze, and wheeled her horse around.  No human woman wore facial hair, and no woman jingled coins from her breasts as she ran._

_“Alfrid!”_

_The worm was not simply being a coward and running from battle, but he was stealing money!  She quickly rode him down.  If he wished to be a coward, that was his prerogative, but she wouldn’t allow him to take money from people who so desperately needed it._

_“Get out of my way!”_

_“Drop the coins!”_

_“This is none of your business, Pointy! I’m not afraid of you!”_

_“Brave words from a man in a dress.”_

_He tried to step around her, but she simply moved her horse in his way._

_“We have no time for this,” one of the twins hissed at her.  “Leave him to the humans.”_

_He was right, whichever he was.  They didn’t have time to drag Alfrid back to Dale and see him to someone for justice.  She had to find Bard, and the twins were eager for bloodshed.  She would have to let him go, but he would not be taking his stolen money with him._

_“Hand over the money.”_

_“Not a chance, girlie.  This is mine; you’d best find your own.”_

_“You will not make off with those poor people’s money.  You’re a thief, and I will not allow that to stand.”_

_Rather than continue to argue with him, she used the tip of her sword to swipe at his shirt, slicing it open and causing the bags of coins to fall to the ground.  When he reached for them, she put the blade to his throat, and he stopped with a gulp._

_“That does not belong to you, and you will not take it.  Now be gone.”_

_He cursed, but left without trying again.  It took mere moments to swing down and gather the bags.  She would see that the coins were distributed among the refugees.  They would need to be able to purchase food in the coming winter.  That the twins waited for her was a surprise, but she quickly joined them, and they gave the horses their heads._

_They were greeted by the sounds of clashing metal, a field littered with bodies, and armies fighting.  Orcs fought dwarves and men.  In the ruins of the city, women were chasing down orcs with rocks and clubs._

_“Thranduil’s here.”_

_Ionien had never heard of this Thranduil, but Elladan sounded astonished.  Elves wearing armor she didn’t recognize fought alongside the dwarves; a sight she’d never thought to see in her life.  The fact that Elrond had assisted the small company at all was surprising enough, but this—three races fighting together—this was beyond all expectation._

_The twins left her to her own devices as they rode for the field.  Ionien urged her mount to the ruins of the city.  They would need a healer.  Wounded may already be carried back to the city, where it would be somewhat safer.  Who knew whether any healers made it out of Laketown, or if they would have any sort of supplies for such a large-scale disaster?_

_An orc came towards her, charging, and she grabbed her sword.  As soon as it was within reach she struck, removing its head.  More orcs followed, and she mowed them down as she made her way into the city.  She searched the streets and encountered many people, but none of them the ones she wanted.  Where could the children be?_

_“Where is Bard?” she asked a woman who had only just taken an axe to an orc’s head._

_“I saw ‘im and ‘is kids takin’ some o’ the wounded into the great hall.”_

_“All of them?”_

_“All of them.”_

_Thank the Valar.  They were all alive, and for the moment they were all safe. Ionien pointed her horse in the direction of the hall, trusting that her memory would not fail her.  It was centuries since she’d been to Dale, before Smaug destroyed it._

_The sight of a great elk collapsed on the ground gave her pause.  She wondered what so majestic an animal was doing amid all the carnage.  When said animal took in a shallow breath, she stopped her horse and slid off. The creature was not yet dead; she could not allow it to continue suffering._

_An orc arrow protruded from its chest.  It would be more difficult to heal than she’d anticipated.  She must remove the poison first, which was trick proposition as she had no leeches handy.  Such useful creatures, leeches, but they did not travel well. Athelas it would have to be.   She chewed a mouthful of the plant into a paste as she worked out the arrow.  As soon as the offending object was free she tossed it to the side, and immediately dressed the wound with the past, changing softly as she worked.  Soon enough a foul-smelling black fluid oozed from the wound.  Ionien continued until the blood ran clear, and finally stopped running altogether.  The animal was breathing easier since being freed from the poison, and she rose with it as it carefully stood to its feet._

_She watched it for a moment as it ambled away before shaking her head and swinging back up onto her mount.  There was nothing more she could do for the elk, but there were plenty of people in need of healing.  She still had to see Bard, and the children._

_She found them in the great hall, along with an untold number of injured.  Some of them she could see at a glance would not last the night, regardless of what she did for them.  Even with the aid of Elladan and Elrohir, many would not be saved.  She put that thought from her mind as she pulled out her bag of herbs.  Her focus must be those that she could save._

_Sigrid saw her first, and her cries of “Da, come quick!” drew the attention of everyone who could hear it.  All eyes turned to stare as Sigrid ran and flung her arms around the newcomer. Bard followed suit when he stepped out to investigate, not having received a response to his “What’s wrong?”   Ionien was very nearly knocked off her feet by the strength of Bard’s embrace._

_“What are you doing here?!  How did you know?!”_

_“I was in Rivendell when the dwarves passed through.  It was not difficult to work out their plan.”_

_She quickly shifted into a healer’s mindset as she surveyed the mass of bodies.  SO many injured, but how many more had never made it from Laketown?   How many littered the field, never to get up again?  There was so very much to be done._

_“Bain, take Tilda and collect all the kingsfoil you can find.  Sigrid, we need fires going and water boiling.  No water is to be used on any patient without it being boiled first.  I won’t risk any wounds becoming inflamed from unclean water.”_

_She waited until the children were gone before directing Bard._

_“The wounded will have to be sorted.  The worst off must come first, and I’ll want a separate room to treat them.  Minor injuries can be seen to by the able-bodied women.  Those who cannot be aided at all—they must be marked.”_

_“Ionien—“_

_“You must do this Bard.  You’ve not enough healers, not even if Elladan and Elrohir satisfy their thirst for blood and give aid.  Time wasted on one who has no chance to survive means more may be lost.  Make them as comfortable as you can, but mark them so I know.”_

_It was a terrible thing she’d asked of him, and she knew it.  But it was so very necessary.  She must use her time and skill on those who might be saved._

_Hours, or perhaps days, later she finally finished with the last of the wounded.  At some point Elrond’s sons had also joined the healing efforts, but Ionien had no idea when that had happened.  Of the hundreds of injured brought in, only thirty-seven were too far gone to be saved.  Others might still succumb to their wounds, but they had a chance._

_Bard had long ago taken Tilda and Bain to rest, but Sigrid stubbornly insisted on remaining and helping where she could.  She had the making of a healer.  When all was finished, Ionien found her sitting vigil over Fili.  The dwarf princeling had yet to wake, but Ionien had faith that he would do so.  She wondered at Sigrid’s attachment to the young dwarf, but that story must be told another time.  IT was past time that Sigrid found her own sleep._

_“Go now, and get some rest.  He won’t wake for a few days at least, and you’ll do no one any good if you drop from exhaustion.”_

_A few dwarves who were not entirely inept at healing were already staying the night.  One of them actually looked impatient for them to leave._

_“You need sleep too.  Da has a pallet for you.”_

_“I’ll be along shortly.”_

_She would ensure that the dwarves knew what they were doing, along with the few human women who still moved among the pallets, and then she would seek her own rest._

_The one decorated in tusks glared at her from his place on the floor.  Given how the others treated him with some deference, Ionien concluded that he was a leader, perhaps even some kin to the line of Durin.  Then again, from what she was able to tell of the dwarves’ speech, the bulk of those who’d travelled through Rivendell possessed some claim to Durin’s blood.  If Fili didn’t make it, she suspected that there could be serious fighting over the throne._

_“We’ve no need of your interference any long, Pointy!”_

_Ionien barely managed to suppress a sigh at that.  She was in no mood to deal with insults from the loud mouthed dwarf, especially when he could find nothing better than ‘pointy’.  Pointed ears were not exclusive to elves, after all.  The white-haired dwarf who’d hovered anxiously over Fili quickly shushed the complainer, whose name she learned was Dain.  Ionien had vague memories of dealings with the Iron Hill dwarves.  Had she known who Dain was she would have happily left him on the battlefield to suffer his injuries.  Perhaps Elrohir should have done so; Dain had acted personally offended at being aided by elves, and his disposition in the intervening hours had not changed in the slightest._

_Ionien chose to ignore Dain, instead directing her remarks to those who would be caring for the wounded.  A few, at least, seemed to retain enough of what she said that she could hope they wouldn’t kill their charges.  She’d never trusted dwarvish medicine._

_Her task complete, she stepped out into the night air.  The stars overhead shone brightly against the midnight sky, but she barely acknowledged them as she allowed her feet to carry her to the building Bard had pointed out.  Somewhere in there was a pallet just waiting for her.  She supposed she should wonder where her companions had gotten themselves off to, but she was truly too tired to care.  She would wonder about them when she was rested._

_Her path to her bed was blocked by the elk she’d saved earlier.  The giant beast now appeared fully recovered.  He truly was a magnificent creature.  Sitting atop the animal was another such: the palest elf she’d ever laid eyes on.  He stared down at her with flashing eyes.  It was almost painful to look on something so beautiful._

_“I had not thought to see Amdiredhel alive again.  How did you accomplish this?”_

_She was distracted from the smoothly voiced question by a shaft of moonlight reflecting up from the snow, highlighting his face.  His beauty was an illusion, and beneath it laid the face of one who’d been touched by dragon fire.  So seamless was the veneer that the elf must have spent ages perfecting it._

_She must have been staring longer than she’d thought, for his expression shifted from curious to nearly hostile._

_“Who are you?” the elf demanded._

_“I am a simple healer, Master Elf.”_

_She chose to leave the conversation with that, and stepped around the elk to continue up the steps into the building.  The ellon she left speechless, and she thought it likely that such was nearly an impossible feat.  He possessed the haughtiness that sometimes betrayed the twins, and spoke as one with authority.  Whoever the ellon was, he was highborn. Ionien was unfortunately well acquainted with the type._

_She would not have been surprised if he chose to follow her to demand his answers. Thankfully he did not.  She managed to make her way into the building unmolested, and up the stairs to the room that was packed with sleeping people.  With so few buildings in Dale still habitable, the survivors were doubled and tripled up, filling every available space. The one positive to the arrangement was that more bodies together generated more heat, a necessity on this cold night._

_She carefully picked her way through the pallets until she reached the corner that Bard had managed to claim for himself. He and Bain were squeezed onto a single pallet, as were Sigrid and Tilda.  A lone pallet lay empty, and Ionien sank onto it gratefully, wrapping her cloak around herself to keep out the draft.  It was little surprise that Tilda snuggled up to her sometime in the early morning hours. She simply held the girl close and drifted into sleep._

_Rude shaking dragged Ionien back into the waking world some untold hours later.  She opened her eyes to find that it was Bard shaking her. As she looked around she saw that the room was almost empty of people, and she wondered how long she’d been sleeping._

_“Is it Fili”  she asked as she rubbed sleep from her eyes.  If Fili had taken a turn for the worse—she’d genuinely liked the young dwarf, and his brother.  It would be a true shame if their line died out completely._

_“No, Fili still sleeps. Those twin demons are looking for you, and threatening to tear down the city.  Get up and prove to them that I’m not hiding your body somewhere, will you?”_

_“How long have I been asleep?”_

_“About twelve hours.  Though you look as though you could use twelve more.”_

_She glared at him, but happily accepted the bread he held out to her, and the water.  There might still be lembas in her bag, but she wasn’t certain where she’d left that. Blast!  The gold she’d rescued from Alfrid was in that bag!  She would have to find it before some greedy dwarf did. She didn’t trust the Iron Hills dwarves who came only after the dragon’s defeat to offer aid.  That gold belonged to the people of Dale, not the dwarves._

_First, though, she must pacify Elladan and Elrohir.  They truly would tear down the city to find her.  Elrond’s sons were determined to look after her in their father’s absence, as though she was their charge.  How easily they forgot that she was NOT their charge, and that she’d taken care of herself for centuries without them._

_Finishing off the water, she managed to make it to her feet. She glared when Bard chuckled at her efforts to walk without tripping over the many objects on the floor, and she thought about hitting him.  The grace of the elves appeared to have deserted her this day, and she almost wished she was a full-blooded elf.  She would at the very least appear more awake than she felt, and she would not almost fall down a flight of stairs as soon as the sunlight hit her eyes._

_She found the ellon she sought at work in the great hall, moving among their patients.  Elrohir simply gave her a nod and passed over her bag before returning his attention to the man he was examining.  Elladan, however, abandoned the woman waiting for him to pull her close enough for a physical inspection.  Ionien suppressed a very human sight at his actions.  He was always the same after a fight, even if she wasn’t a part of it.  For some reason he never disclosed he’d decided he must verify that she was hale and whole._

_“I am well, Elladan; merely fatigued, but eager to get to work.”_

_“You should still be resting.”_

_“So should you, from the look of things.”_

_She’d been too preoccupied to notice the cut that ran down the side of his face yesterday, but she could certainly see it now.  It wouldn’t scar, but for the next day or so she would easily be able to tell the twins apart.  At times it was difficult to distinguish them on sight._

_Once he was satisfied that she was telling the truth, he released her and returned to his patient.  Ionien looked over those on her path as she made her way to Fili.  As Bard said, he still slept, but his color was just the slightest bit improved.  The white-haired dwarf-- Balin was his name? Yes, Balin—smiled at her as she stepped to the cot, but the surly one from the night before was still there, scowling._

_“Stop your insults, Ironfoot, unless you’re somehow miraculously able to care for the boy yourself.”_

_“I fail to see where you’ve done so much for ‘im, lassie!  It’s us who watched over ‘im all night!”_

_It was gratifying to hear Balin and the healer dwarf jump to her defense.  Ionien smiled to herself at their argument as she laid a hand on the side of Fili’s face.  He slept, but it was the sleep of the ill and exhausted.  It wasn’t the sleep caused by an orc blade’s poison.  His recovery would be long, but Ionien grew more confident that he would make it.  She would leave Sigrid to deal with the dwarves during the day._

_At some point during the night, the bodies of Thorin and Kili had been brought down from the hill. The other dwarves of the company were seeing to the task of preparing them for burial.  The somber expressions were out of place on the normally cheery faces.  Ionien nearly overlooked the hobbit that kept vigil over Thorin, so quiet was he. Bilbo Baggins was quite changed from the last time she laid eyes on him. There sat a creature who’d never seen war, until he was thrust into the midst of one.  He should return to the Shire, and soon.  Hobbits were such innocent creatures, and they should be allowed to keep that innocence._

_Her attention was dragged from Bilbo, who’d offered her a slight smile and a nod, to the she-elf sitting listlessly by Kili’s side.  She’d never seen the elf before, but the woman was sitting as though not even death would move her.  When had Kili met an elf?  And had time to from an attachment?_

_She was no Rivendell elleth; of that much Ionien was certain.  She knew most elves that called Imladris home, but she didn’t recognize this one.  Could she have come from Lasgalen?  It was the nearest elven realm to Dale, if her memory served._

_Of greater concern than the elleth’s origin was her current state.  Ionien could recognize grief when she saw it, and she’d spent enough time with elves to know when one was in danger of fading.  That could not be allowed. She refused to simply give up and let someone waste away._

_“You.  Elf.”_

_The elleth looked up at her, and Ionien could see that she was indeed in danger of failing._

_“I require an assistant who knows what they’re doing.  Will you help me?  Or will you let Kili’s death mean nothing?”_

_It was a low blow, but she would use what means were necessary to get the elleth moving. Kili would absolutely not want someone he loved to grieve themselves to death over him.  The elleth bore fading injuries, which meant she’d participated in this battle.  Ionien would lay gold on the likelihood that she’d fought with and for Kili._

_She would consider the flash of anger in the elleth’s eyes a vast improvement over only a moment ago. There was spirit in this woman still.  It simply needed a proper direction at which to be pointed._

_“What is your name?”_

_“Tauriel.”_

_“Well, Tauriel, it is time to work.”_

_More than an hour passed before they were able to stop for a brief rest.  Ionien took the opportunity to pass the gold she’d retrieved to Bard, when he made his own rounds of the building.  The Man and the sons of Elrond were in deep discussion about the state of the buildings that were still standing.  She’d heard rumor that Bard would be crowned King of Dale.  Should that come to pass, he would find most of his days filled with the same cares as this one.  She would not wish such responsibility on his shoulders, nor on Bain’s, to whom the crown would pass._

_“You’ve done well, Tauriel,” she turned to acknowledge the elleth who’d provided valuable assistance.  She was amused to discover that Tilda had collapsed practically on top of the she-elf.  The child look exhausted.  Ionien was aware that Tilda had been on her feet almost the entire day, as had Sigrid, and she was in no doubt that they both needed rest. But Sigrid was proving immovable from her vigil at Fili’s side, and Tilda would not leave her sister.  Ionien would allow one more hour before physically removing them to somewhere they could nap._

_A shadow fell across them, interrupting Ionien’s musings.  Someone new come in need of healing, no doubt.  Tauriel’s slight gasp made Ionien reconsider that thought, and she looked up to see the elf from last night._

_Up close, with the illusion covering his face, he was easily the most beautiful creature she’d ever seen.  At least today he did not seem so hostile.  That face was meant for more than the scowl he’d directed at her once he realized she could see his secret._

_“Aran.”_

_Aran.  Elvish for King.  Ionien looked from the elf to Tauriel, then back again. The ellon who’d accosted her last night was king?  He could only be the king of the Mirkwood elves.  But he appeared to be Sinda, not Silvan.  Being king did explain his attitude, at least.  Ionien doubted the ellon was ever refused anything._

_“There are elves that could use your assistance, Tauriel. We have not enough healers.”_

_Ionien had difficulty believing that an elf king would come to battle without being sufficiently prepared.  Perhaps he invented an excuse to keep Tauriel busy, so that he might keep watch over her? Elladan and Elrohir would have found their way over to the elf tents, which would increase their healers, so it was highly unlikely this elf king truly had such need._

_Tauriel looked to the elvenking, then carefully nudged Tilda awake enough to move her. Ionien watcher her go with no small amount of concern for her state of mind.  All was not well between Tauriel and this elfking; even an outsider such as she could see that.  The ellon waited until Tauriel collected herself and left before speaking again._

_“I am told that you are responsible for keeping the dwarfling alive.”_

_“I did what I could. The rest is up to him.”_

_“You did more than most could do.  I would speak with you concerning a personal matter/”_

_“Of course.”_

_She ignored Tilda’s curious look when she rose and scanned for private room.  It was not the child’s business, and the elfking’s injuries would likely be scarring for her.  Instead, Ionien dispatched Tilda to see if Sigrid needed any assistance before directing the ellon into the closest empty room.  There were no chairs, nor tables.  Any furniture that was still serviceable had been appropriated for the main hall, and the wounded.  The elf king would have to stand for this examination.  As soon as Ionien closed the door, the illusion covering the ellon’s face disappeared._

_“This injury is old.”_

_“Very.”_

_She carefully reached for his face, and he leaned forward to meet her part way.  She could only imagine the incredible pain such a wound must cause.  She was gentle in her movement as she searched along his face, fingers no longer grazing flesh but sinew and bone.  To incur such wounds, but no more, he must have slain the dragon that cause them.  If he had not, he would never have survived.  Beneath his beauty, this elf was lethal.  She must make certain to remember that in her dealings with him._

 

 

Ionien woke to the sounds of her cell door unlocking.   She should have known that this place would stir memories of the aftermath of Smaug’s attack into her dreams, but she was faced with that dream becoming a nightmare.  She knew the voice that spoke to her jailer.  Thranduil had learned of her presence, and he’d come.   As the cell door opened she pulled her hood over her head and backed to the farthest corner of the cell, even as she knew the actions to be futile.  There was no escape from the ellon stepping inside her cell, one she’d spent ten years running from.

“Would you still hide yourself from me, Ionien?”

She shrank from his touch, but there was nowhere she could go.  He pushed the hood from her head, and tucked her dark hair behind her pointed ears.  It WAS his Ionien.  He could see how Legolas might think her mortal if he made no close inspection, but there was no doubt of it.  This was no mere human.

“You will come with me.”

He kept his hold on her arm firm as he pulled her from the cell.  He would not let her escape him again.  Nor would he leave her in this place.  The dungeons were no place for her.  She fought against him, as he expected, but her strength was no match for his.  Her attempts to free herself by grabbing on to the other cell door were futile.

“I am not your subject, Thranduil!  Do not think to treat me as one!”

“You will tend to Bronwehel,” he informed her as he pulled here away from the doors, guiding her into the maze of halls.  “If you wish to walk on your own, then do so, but do not think to run off. I will carry you as an elfling if I must.”

The threat to carry her bodily worked.  She jerked away from him, but walked with no further complaints. Thranduil would appreciate her cooperation, did he not know that it stemmed from her wish not to be touched by him.  He guided her through the halls to Bronwehel’s chamber. The boy took one look at the new arrivals before flinging himself into Ionien’s arms.

“Help her!”

Ionien looked to the figure on the bed. Bronwehel was more restless than she would expect when she was supposed to be healing.  Had the healers missed something? 

Thranduil was all but forgotten as she leaned over her patient.  Her hands ghosted over the twitching elleth as she searched for anything that may have been hidden.  Her primary concern on the journey had been keeping Bronwehel alive until they could get her to the elves.  It was entirely possible that something small had been overlooked, and that something small had developed into something serious.

There.  Was that—?  She pressed gently down on the elleth’s stomach and was rewarded with a moan of pain. 

“Fetch me Tauriel,” she ordered as she grabbed the basket full of athelas and set it nearer the bed. The fire was dying down, a bad sign as she needed the water boiled.

“Why Tauriel?”

“Because I will require assistance.”

“I will assist you.”

“You will fetch me Tauriel!” she hissed at the stubborn ellon.  What she must do would be most invasive.  Thranduil could not be in the room; nor could the boy.

“I require a woman’s assistance.  You and Lostion will have your own task.”

If he continued to argue she would not be responsible for her actions.  If he wished to see Bronwehel healed, he could afford no more delay.

“I need more wood for the fire, as well.”

There were only two logs left to place in the grate.  It would not be enough.  It would take those two just to get the flame hot enough to boil the water and keep it boiling.  Thranduil nodded curtly, but left the room. Ionien took advantage of his absence to search the stack of papers on a seat.  His, no doubt.  She finally found one that contained only a list and used the reverse side to scratch out a list of her own.  By the time Thranduil returned with Tauriel and more wood, the water in the pot was boiling.  Ionien shoved the list into his hands.

“Take Lostion with you.  Do not bring him back in until I say so.”

He raised an eyebrow at the order, but summoned Lostion and ushered him out of the room.  As soon as the door closed Ionien set Tauriel to pounding athelas until it was little more than a powder as she dumped the entire weed into the boiling water.  The long wood spoon was used to stir the water before she dipped a rag in to soak.

“The king said Bronwehel is still in danger?”

“I do not believe her body expelled everything when she lost the child.  If we do not empty her womb completely, it could eventually kill her.”

Ionien spoke bluntly, now that Thranduil and the boy were gone.  With the rag completely soaked, she lifted it out with the spoon.  She paid no attention to her hands burning as she wrung it out before lifting Bronwehel’s dress and laying the steaming rag directly on the site. 

“Is the athelas ready?”

At Tauriel’s nod, Ionien took the bowl from her and spooned some of the boiling water into it.  With her fingers she mixed it until it formed a thick paste, and added other herbs from the healer’s things.  Next she filled a cup with some of the boiling water and set it to cool before kneeling on the bed.

“I need you to hold her down,” she instructed Tauriel.  At the elleth’s compliance and nod, she scooped the thick paste onto her fingers and immediately shoved them inside Bronwehel’s body.  The unconscious elleth still attempted to squirm away, but Ionien and Tauriel held firm.  Ionien knew it could not be comfortable, as she used no lotion to ease the way for fear of diluting the paste, but she ignored Bronwehel’s movements.  She held her fingers in place, coating the walls, then applied more and pushed further up.  With her other hand she held the cloth in place on Bronwehel’s abdomen and began to chant.  She continued to chant even as she removed her fingers from the elleth’s womb, and Tauriel joined her.

She had no idea how long she worked, but she came back to herself when she felt the change in Bronwhel’s body, and looked down to see blood, infection, and pieces of a birth cord exiting between the elleth’s legs. Tauriel immediately helped her clean up the mess, consigning the soiled rags and their contents to the flames. All that was left was to clean Bronwehel and brew a tea that would help her rid her body of any lingering traces of infection. 

Ionien closed her eyes for a moment, trying not to sway on her feet.  She was drained from all of the healing she’d done, with no change to rest.  She reminded herself that there was still work to be done, and removed the rag that had grown cool on Bronwehel’s body, replacing it with a fresh one.  To her relieve, Tauriel had finished the task of cleaning the unconscious elleth’s body, even maneuvering to strip the soiled bedding beneath her.  That should be burned as well, to thoroughly destroy the contamination. 

Already Bronwehel’s coloring was better; she no longer looked as if she was a death’s door.  They would need to find fresh bedding. Perhaps she would set Thranduil to that task when they returned.

“You are unwell?”

“I am well, Tauriel.”

The response to that was a pair of arms scooping her against a firm chest.  When had Thranduil returned?  She didn’t hear him enter the room. 

She fought against his hold, but he simply held her tighter as he carried her a short distance down the hall to another door.  She recognized the intricate carvings on this door.  Thranduil was taking her into his chamber.

No.  This could not be allowed to happen.  She must return to Feredir, and escape this place.

“Hush, Ionien,” Thranduil attempted to soothe as he opened the door and her struggles became more pronounced.  “You need rest, meleth nin, and you will not find that with Bronwehel.”

“I will not leave my patient.”

The protest might have more weight if she didn’t sound so exhausted.  As things stood Thranduil simply chuckled as he carried her to the bed and laid her down on it.  He joined her before she could try to leave it, gathering her close so that she was resting against him.  It was the first time in ten years that he felt any sort of peace.

“Sleep, meleth nin.  Tomorrow will be soon enough to fight.”

He had no doubt that they would fight.  She’d run from him before, and attempted to hide from him now.  She would not suddenly agree to stay, and he would never agree to let her go.  It would be a fight indeed.

“You cannot keep me here, Thranduil,” she threatened, even as her eyes closed in sleep.  She would soon learn just how mistaken she was.

The question of why she’d run from him again settled in his mind.  He’d given her no reason to fear him, yet she’d run as though Sauron himself was on her heels. He’d scoured the forest as soon as it was discovered that she was missing, but she’d eluded him. Why had she fled?

She would not escape this time.  For the last decade he’d been driven half mad by her absence.  Whatever had caused her to run before would be put right, but she would stay.  It was unthinkable that he would allow his Bonded to disappear again.

She was still lovely, he admitted as he watched her sleep.  Her dark hair, worn shorter than most elleths, put him mind of Arwen, or Elrond.  Whoever her people were, they did not have the coloring of the Sindar.  He knew so little of her parentage—she might be Silvan for all that he knew.  That thought did not bother him as much as it should have, given his reaction to Legolas’ affection for Tauriel.

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts, and he called out permission to enter.  It could only be Tauriel or Legolas, and he would not disturb Ionien simply to open a door.  As if summoned by his thoughts, Tauriel stepped inside.

“Edraithon has pronounced Bronwehel fully healed, my lord.”

He hadn’t doubted that Ionien would be successful, but to hear confirmation from his healer was a relief.  Bronwehel should wake by the morning, if all was well now. The child would be relieved to see his mother whole.

“You knew she was here, yet you said nothing.”

Tauriel’s gaze drifted from him to the woman sleeping in his arms.

“She did not intend to stay, my lord.  She meant to bring Bronwehel and then leave again.”

Of course, she meant to sneak through his lands without his knowing.  How many times had she done so before?  She might have been close so many times, and he’d been unaware.

“Such choices are no longer hers to make.  And I should not need to remind you where your loyalties

lie.”

“My loyalties lie with you, my king.  But I fear that forcing her to remain against her will can only bring trouble for you.”

“Inform me when Bronwehel wakes.  Under no other circumstances are we to be disturbed.”

 Tauriel left with another nod, closing the door behind.  Perhaps he was too harsh with her.  She and Ionien had been friendly as the healer helped her through her mourning over the dwarf.  It was likely due to Ionien’s intervention that the Silvan had not been lost to her grief and faded.  Tauriel would feel the weight of that, but her actions were misplaced.  If she wished to provide assistance, she should help Ionien settle into the role she must now fill.

“Why must you make everything so difficult, young one?” he asked his sleeping mate.  He could feel the bond they’d begun those years ago, and it was not as it should be.  A Soul Bond such as theirs should have rippled smooth as silk; instead it was a brittle as a dried leaf.  He slipped into her mind easily, allowed to do so by the bond, and was pleased that her sleeping thoughts were of him.  He carefully nudged her into a deeper sleep before closing his own eyes.

 

 


	3. Escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forget which story I read that contained the dwarves curse, but I fell in love with it and had to appropriate it! If I could remember where it came from, I would give the author full credit by name, but I'll settle for acknowledging that that particular profanity came out of someone else's imagination, not mine.

It was the smell of fresh bread that pulled Ionien from sleep.  Hot bread, freshly churned butter, and fresh honey, if she wasn’t mistaken.  Was that real coffee she smelled? Those beans came only from the eastern desert countries.  How would Thranduil have them? If he did have them, why was not sharing them?

Thranduil.  Just thinking the name was enough to remind her she was not alone in this bed.  She was, in fact, in HIS bed.  As if to prove it, his arm around her tightened, and her mind began to race. Escaping was going to be much more difficult now:  he was already too attached, and it would be worse after prolonged contact.  If he was difficult before, he would be impossible now.

“You think too much, Meleth. You must calm your mind.”

“I never stop thinking.”

Truly, it might be her greatest flaw.  Even when she wished to, she could not quiet her mind.  Her thoughts were ever occupied with patients, or problems, or potential difficulties yet unfulfilled. Even now, as she sought possible escape from the ellon holding her so carefully, she also thought of Bronwehel and her state at this hour.  Was Lostion still with her, or had Tauriel managed to send him somewhere he could sleep?  Was Feredir still in this forest, or had he escaped.

“You need rest, Ionien.  Close your eyes and return to sleep.”

She couldn’t sleep.  Not when her mind chose to remind her that she didn’t know where her daughter was, or if her husband had escaped, and that she was in the one place she didn’t want to be.

“I must see to Bronwehel.”

She offered it up; the only excuse Thranduil was likely to accept. He obviously cared a great deal about the woman.  She would find a way to use that.

“The healers have pronounced her fully healed. There is no need for you to trouble yourself.”

“I will see to her myself.”

“And so you will, when you are fully rested.  You exhausted yourself in healing her, and you must give yourself time to recover.”

“You do not control me, Thranduil.  I make my own choices.”

The elf king couldn’t be allowed to issue orders. It was important to not surrender her autonomy.  If she allowed him to control her in the small things, he would assume control in more important things, and even more importantly, he would take any acquiescence as surrender. This man would seize on any weakness she showed.

“In that you are mistaken, Ionien,” he answered her coolly. “You are bound to me, and to this place.  Your choices are no longer your own.”

Impossible.  She bound herself in service to no one.  She would never restrict herself, or Feredir, in such a way.  If the elvenking believed he could make it so simply by declaring it, he would find out just how mistaken he was.

“I am bound to no one, Elvenking.  I move freely, giving service where I choose.”

Such had been her practice for centuries.  She would not abandon it for a single person, not even the beautiful Thranduil.  Her answer received only a snort from the man beneath her, and his fingers returned to carding through her hair.  Her own fingers itched to return the favor; the hair pillowing her cheek was a soft as she remembered.  It was difficult to remember the last time someone other than her daughter had taken the time to simply pet her hair.

“You know of what I speak, meleth nin, and it is no bond of service.”

It was said simply, with a tone of clear amusement.  Ionien froze. She spoke Sindarin fluently.  Thranduil—King of the Greenwood—called her his love.  He held her as if she was treasured.  It was no bond of service, that much she could deduce.

The implications of that were terrifying.  She would never bind herself to him in any way but service, especially not when she had a legitimate husband, yet Thranduil seemed to believe she had done precisely that.  The Sinda was cunning, but even he would not make such a claim without proof.  What he suggested was impossible, but the elvenking implied that it was not only possible, it was fact. Could elves lose their reason?

“You lie.”

Beneath her, Thranduil grew very still. It was the stillness that belonged only to full-blooded elves.  In all her years, she’d never achieved the art of being so completely motionless. It felt as though the very room itself had frozen in time. The silk beneath her fingers was suddenly harsh to the touch, and she lifted her head from it.

“What new ploy is this?  Think you that denial can undo it?”

“One cannot undo what does not exist.”

She pulled away as she spoke.  Whatever misunderstanding had taken place, it wouldn’t be sorted out by laying on Thranduil’s chest.  His nearness was too distracting, and she must be able to think.  Unfortunately, the elvenking didn’t take her movement as a sign to leave well enough alone; instead he followed her upright.

“Do you purposely try to provoke me, Ionien, by pretending our bond never took place?  You will not find me in a gaming mood over this.”

Was he ever in a gaming mood?  Was there a time when Thranduil Oropherion allowed himself something so frivolous?

“You are mistaken, Thranduil.”

Another denial was the wrong answer.  Ionien found herself in an inescapable hold as the elvenking assaulted her mouth, taking her lips in a vicious kiss. It was unyielding, demanding, and entirely familiar.  Rather than shoving away she capitulated when he nipped, urging her to part her lips.

_“I would offer you a permanent place here.”_

_“I would not accept, Thranduil.  You’ve healers enough, and they are quite capable.  I must go where I am needed.”_

_Refusals weren’t something the ellon was accustomed to.  Ionien could practically see the gears of his mind turning.  No matter his argument, it would not change her mind.  She’d been gone too long already.  She’d promised Feredir her tenure in Imladris would be brief, and no mention had been made of Laketown.  He would understand the need to see to Bard, and the children, but she’d spent months in Mirkwood._

_“What could call you from this place?  What demand could pull you away from your own?”_

_“The elves of Mirkwood are not my own. They are your people, Elfking; not mine.”_

_“Are you not elf as well?”_

_“Among other things, as you well know.”_

_It was an old argument then; very nearly the first they’d ever had.  The mercurial Sinda was far more concerned with her origins than she was, and they frequently debated her heritage and where her allegiances should lie.  The argument was as familiar as the room in which she sat, attempting to read a book before the interruption.  Many a quiet night had passed in the king’s study, quietly reading and keeping Thranduil company as he worked.  The padded bench in the corner had unofficially become hers._

_She couldn’t stay angry with him long.  His was the only constant company she kept in Mirkwood.  The Silvan elves looked at her as if she was something Other.  The healer, Edraithon, only grudgingly allowed her into the healing wards doing all in his power to avoid her, though she suspected that might have stemmed more from professional pique.  She seemed to be the only one capable of relieving Thranduil’s pain, and the healer seemed to take that personally.  Even Tauriel, the she-elf who’d mourned Kili and helped heal the people of Dale was no company for her here. Not when Thranduil banished her._

_“Surely the Eldar have as great a claim as those you would leave us for.”_

_She looked up from the book when a goblet appeared in her field of vision. She accepted the wine with a nod of thanks and sipped it. The king had pulled out the Dorwinion.  This would be a serious conversation then._

_“It is not a question of birth, my lord.  I go where there is need.  There is no need for me here.”_

_“Others would beg to differ.”_

_His announcement was not news.  Ionien had heard a number of comments from the elves that their king’s mercurial moods were tempered due to his new “companion”.  It would truly not surprise her should one of them decide to make her captive simply to keep Thranduil happy.  Such talk was only more reason to leave, soon.  She knew that many believed her relationship with Thranduil to be physically intimate.  She suspected that to be part of the reason she was avoided by a number of elleths who craved their king’s favor for themselves.  They would never believe that their relationship, intimate as it might be, was never physical.  She could not remain and allow such rumors to persist._

_“And still others would be more than satisfied if I disappeared tomorrow.”_

_Thranduil abandoned the pretense of working to join her on the bench, even going so far as to remove the book from her hands.  Ionien stayed still, sipping her wine.  The elf king was not a man to be rushed.  He would speak when he was ready to do so.”_

_He dislodged his hair as he lifted his own cup, and Ionien stopped herself from reaching for it.  She knew that it was as soft as it looked; softer than her own, and white as moonlight.  It was almost painful to look on one so beautiful._

_“Despite what you think, you ARE needed here.  There is much you might do as my—“_

_“As your concubine?” she interrupted him, needing to diffuse the atmosphere.  The way Thranduil was looking at her—if any of her detractors could see them now, they would think their suppositions correct. He looked pained at the suggestion, but did not remove himself. She needed him to move.  He was too close, considering their discussion.  She was not immune to the elf king, but she was determined she would not act on it._

_His expression changed to a look of pain that she was all too familiar with.  The injury was too old to be healed completely, and despite her best efforts she could provide only temporary relief from the pain._

_“Your wound pains you?”_

_He didn’t answer, but he did not need to. Ionien reached for his face, but was stopped by his hand.  She levelled a single look at him, and continued until she was touching flesh.  For a brief moment the illusion fell away to reveal his true visage before it was quickly recovered.  She wondered privately when was the last time this great elf king allowed himself to be so unguarded.  He did not release her wrist when she finished, choosing instead to tighten his hold._

_“You ARE needed here,” he whispered before closing the distance and claiming her mouth in a kiss.  It was a response without thought to open her mouth to his eager probing.  The feel of his lips against her own was heady, and intoxicating. Thranduil knew his business.  She hadn’t been kissed like this in ages.  Feredir was not so skilled, though his other qualities made up for the deficiency, and her last husband had been dead for over fifty years.  It had been long since she felt such passion._

_Sanity returned too late.  Feredir was waiting for her return, and she was in an embrace with the elvenking.  This was wrong! She would not break her vows to her husband!  She pushed against him, but it had the opposite effect; he leaned into her, his tongue chasing hers as his body followed until she was leaning against the wall._

_Reason failed her again as she tasted him.  She was no longer pushing him away, she was pulling him closer.  Her protests died, and the only words between them were declarations of want and demands for more.  Her mind followed her body in its betrayal as bubbles of pleasure and intimacy such as she’d never felt before burst in her brain._

Sanity did not abandon her this time. She pushed against Thranduil when she felt his hands move. She betrayed Feredir once, she wouldn’t do it again.  She wouldn’t give in to Thranduil Oropherion a second time.

When pushing didn’t work, she bit, sinking her teeth into his tongue, and he pulled back in shock.  She used the opportunity to bolt from the bed, thankful that she wasn’t in a dress.  Unfortunately he was faster, blocking the door before she could reach it.  He touched his fingers to his tongue and looked stunned that they came away bloody.

“What is the meaning of this?”

“I could ask you the same.”

He had no right to look hurt when it was he who assaulted her.

“Ionien—“

“Release me at once!  You’ve no right to keep me prisoner!”

A knock on the door interrupted what was certain to be an explosive argument and Ionien thanked Eru for it.  She could not face Thranduil as they were.  She’d come too close to disregarding everything and simply giving in.  Thranduil glared at the door, and Ionien almost felt sorry for the elf on the other side. The elvenking was not known for reining in his temper. With an angry hiss the door was yanked open, and she was surprised Thranduil didn’t rip it off its hinges.

“I thought I made it clear that I wasn’t to be disturbed for any reason?”

“Forgive me, my king, but the prisoner has escaped.”

Ionien perked up as she listened in.  She was certain that Thranduil didn’t intend for her to overhear, as he stepped outside and pulled the door closed behind him.  That didn’t matter. She’d heard enough; Feredir escaped. That meant it was time for her to leave as well.  She had to escape before she lost her reason again. She’d underestimated the effect Thranduil’s nearness had on her.

She needed a weapon.  She didn’t have any real hope of beating Thranduil in combat, but if she could surprise him she might have a change to get away.  She remembered the layout of the city, if she could only get away from him.

The poker at the hearth might serve.  It was heavier than her sword, but she could strike him with it.  She lamented the loss of her own weapons, but she knew not where they would have been taken, nor did she have time to search for them.  She would have a very limited window to make her way out of the city.  Once Thranduil recovered from the attack, he would have every guard he possessed in pursuit of her.  No, she would have to escape with only her wits and what she could lay her hands on.

Time was running out.  Thranduil would not berate the messenger forever, and when he finished he would return to her.  Ionien grabbed the poker and too up position.  When the door opened and Thranduil stepped through, he would be in easy reach.  She could still hear his words; he was ordering a full pursuit and doubling the guards at the entrance.  That would make escape more problematic, but she must take the chance.  If she failed, she would not have another.

Something inside her screamed that she shouldn’t do this.  Something screamed that it was wrong to harm the elf king.  The thought of hurting him felt entirely vile, but she ordered that part of her to silence.  She must do this if she wished to see her husband or daughter again.

She steeled herself against the feeling of wrongness, and when Thranduil stepped back into the room, she acted.  It took all of her strength to bring the poker down with sufficient force, but the blow landed on his head, precisely where she aimed.  He fell to the floor, but Ionien didn’t wait to see whether he was unconscious.  She ran through the maze of hallways that made up the city. She couldn’t leave through the main entrance, but there had to be another way out.

Thranduil staggered to his feet, barely managing to hold in the bellow of rage.  Ionien had attacked him!  She’d purposely struck him with—the poker from the hearth?  What in Eru’s name had come over the woman?

Getting her back was the most important consideration.  He didn’t know why she insisted on denying their bond, but this would end.  They were bonded and wedded, and she was the Greenwood’s queen, and it was all done with her full participation.  Her home was here, regardless of her wish to pretend otherwise.  It was time she accept that.

She would have gone after her human companion.  That should have been comforting, but she wouldn’t come quietly and his patrols were searching to intercept the human.  There was likely to be bloodshed if they intersected, even though she had been stripped of her weapons.  He would have to retrieve her himself.

How much a head start did she have?  He didn’t know how long he’d been unconscious.  She might still be in the city, or she might be in the forest.  If she was in the forest unarmed—the spiders still roamed.  There was no time to lose.

He threw off his robe and reached for his armor. He wouldn’t bother with all of it, but the breastplate was a necessity. Ionien was a Ranger, and a good one.  She would aim to kill if she felt cornered. 

Once he had the breastplate on satisfactorily, he reached for his swords and---there wasn’t much he respected of dwarves, but he did appreciate some of their profanities, and a very fitting one came to mind—By Nain’s Bearded Ass, Ionien had stolen one of his swords!  With a curse, he shoved the other into its scabbard and slipped it over his head, then strode for the door, only to find it blocked.  He would admire her ingenuity if he wasn’t so furious.  She’d shoved something into the lock to prevent the latch from releasing.

Damn it all, but the woman was stubborn!  He mentally called for his seneschal.  If he could no free himself, he would not be so stubborn as to refuse to call for aid.  Andrathon would be wise enough to say nothing of the matter.  The urge to vent his frustration was strong enough that he removed his dagger and attacked the lock from his side of the door.  The carpenter would be angry at the damage, but he spared no thought for that.  He would force the blockage from the lock, or he would remove the lock from the door.

_“Come home, Ionien.  Do not run from me again.”_

He expected to receive a refusal, but no the pure terror that flooded his mind.  That terror nearly drove him to his knees.  Why should she fear her bondmate’s presence in her mind? Had she forgotten they could speak so? 

_“Your fear is misplaced, meleth nin.  You are in no danger from me.  Come home.”_

Her attempts to force him from her mind proved unsuccessful, as he knew they would.  The attempts were clumsy and unpracticed, as though she’d never done such a thing before.  He had Ages of experience.  She didn’t stand a chance against him.

“My king?  Are you injured?”

Andrathon’s tone was filled with concern for his king.  Thranduil both appreciated and resented it.  His seneschal didn’t intend to imply that a young elleth could best him, and rationally he knew that, but considering that such had just happened, it was a very raw reminder.

“I am uninjured, Andrathon. But I must leave at once, and find I am unable to do so.”

He poked again at the lock, but the obstruction did not budge.  Andrathon set to work on the other side of the door, and Thranduil heard a curse escape his lips.  The elvenking was sorely tempted to put Ionien over his knee, as he had done Legolas ages ago, for all the trouble she caused. It was several minutes’ work, attacking the problem from both sides of the door, before the door was opened.  Andrathon stood on the other side, holding a twig that was used for kindling.  Such a little thing, to cause so much trouble.

“My king? Where do you go?”

The cinnamon haired ellon took in his king in breastplate, carrying a sword.  He knew immediately that more was wrong than he’d first suspected.  He’d heard rumors that the elleth healer his king had been taken with ten years ago was one of the prisoners the prince had captured.  Seeing his king ready for battle, he had a sinking feeling the rumor was true.

“I go to retrieve something of mine.”

“Legolas and his guard have gone after the prisoners, my lord.  They will not escape our lands.”

“No. They will not.”

Andrathon knew a lost cause when he encountered one.  The king stalked past him without another word, and the seneschal found himself feeling sorry for the elleth.  He remembered her kindness to all of the wounded after the battle at Erebor, and during her stay in the Greenwood.  Some said she travelled with Rangers, but that would not help her now.  Thranduil’s care for her was currently displaced by fury. He hoped the king remembered himself before he reached her.

Thranduil did not pause as he swung onto Amdiredhel’s back and set off.  Ionien had a lead that must be closed before Legolas reached them, or they escaped the forest.  He had a good idea of their direction—they would head for the river, and seek to follow it downstream.  It would be the fastest means of escaping, and likely the safest as spiders still preyed in the deep woods.  He almost wished for a spider to hack apart at this moment.  When he retrieved his wife he was going to lock her in their room for a week, just to make sure she stayed there.

Amdiredhel took him on a sure path through the wood, fleetly weaving through trees as he ran.  The creature could sense a terrible urgency in his lord’s heart, and so ran as he seldom ran through this wood.  He knew there was something important out there that the king must find.

Thranduil heard them before they reached the small clearing.  His stomach turned to stone when he realized that they had very nearly reached the river.  One would not need a boat to make one’s way faster than an elf could run; one needed only a fallen log to hold on to, and the woods had them in abundance.  Had they not been intercepted, they might be on the way to freedom.  Ionien might already be gone from him.

It was the sound of fighting that greeted the elvenking.  Metal clashed as blade’s impacted.  When he drew close enough he could see that the human lay on the ground, an arrow through his heart. Legolas had aimed true.  That mean that it was Ionien his son was fighting, which was unacceptable.  He knew of Legolas’ skill, and he’d sparred with Ionien.  Either of them could greatly harm the other.

The elves that ran with Legolas bowed in acknowledgment and backed away as Thranduil descended from Amdiredhel’s back.  This close, it was plain to see that both of them bore injuries, and he looked to the assembled elves for explanation.  His orders to restrain the prisoners without harm had been clear, and Legolas would doubtless have passed those demands to his soldiers.  Tauriel stepped forward, meeting her king’s angered gaze head-on.  Her own expression betrayed her concern over the situation.

“She attacked Legolas when the Man fell, my king.”

“Why did the man fall?”

“He shot first.”

It was then that Thranduil took in the bow and arrows beside the body.  Legolas would respond to such a threat with deadly force, regardless of instruction.  Thranduil would expect no less, but the consequence was that his wife was not trying to kill his son.  It was evident from the set of her expression that she was out for blood, even though Legolas was not.  This was his greatest fear confirmed.

He watched his own sword arc through the air to be blocked by Legolas’ twin blades.  Ionien was beginning to tire.  It was not yet evident to his son, but Thranduil knew the signs. He was reminded of the last time they sparred together; nearly an hour of uninterrupted fighting passed before he’d been able to claim a victory. She would not lay down her sword, no matter how tired she grew.  If this did not end soon, one of them would make a mistake and cause serious harm.

“Legolas stop,” he called.  It would be easier to get his son’s attention.  He watched Legolas’ strategy change from defense to offense, indicating that the command had been heard.  The prince’s goal would be to tire his adversary out, and put an end to the fighting.  His moves became more aggressive, forcing Ionien to step back.  The more she moved, the more quickly she would exhaust herself.  It was good to see that Legolas was taking seriously his order that Ionien not be harmed.

A particularly vicious swing from the elleth sent Legolas back a step.  It seemed the Ionien had worked out what her opponent was attempting, or she had simply decided that if she died she was taking him with her.  As Thranduil watched, Legolas’ swords missed their target, and his sword drew blood.  Without another thought, the elvenking strode into the fray, using his sword to block a blow that could have caused Legolas grievous injury.

_“Enough, Ionien.  If you wish to exorcise your anger, you will do so against me.”_

He was the target of her anger, not those who’d come after her.  What he’d done to earn that anger, he still did not know.  She accepted the challenge of his mental communication, and attacked with a ferocity he’d never seen in her.  Still, his sword was unfamiliar to her, and she’d been fighting for some time.  She couldn’t deny her exhaustion forever.

A swing missed, and he moved in closer.  As a ranger, Ionien was a skilled swordswoman, but she was no match for him.  As he moved she struggled to maintain her standing.  Her moves became wilder as she tired, until she could no longer maintain any form.  Thranduil used the opportunity to step closer and disarm her.  His sword flew through the air and he caught it, so that both blades were pointed at her. He felt better for having both swords back in his hands.

“Enough, Ionien.”

She looked back from the tips of the blades, which were pointed at her throat.  His intention wasn’t to cause harm, but to keep her still.  She looked as though she still might bolt.

_“Enough, meleth nin.  It is time to come home.”_

She shook her head and stepped back, and he stepped forward, his swords sliding apart to cage her in, one on each side of her neck.  She was just out of his reach, still too far to lay a hand on her and pull her in. 

_“Whatever you are thinking, do not do it.”_

Her expression was defiant.  Why did she still fight? He failed to understand what could drive her to run from him a second time.  Nothing in his actions the previous night could be interpreted as dangerous, or threatening to her.  There was no reason for this reaction on her part.

Her eyes narrowed, and she ducked and rolled away.  Thranduil could only stop her action by drawing blood, so he allowed the movement.  He was stunned when her actions brought her close enough to him to remove his dagger.  She pointed it threateningly at him as she rose to her feet.

“Drop the dagger.”

She did not listen, and Thranduil sighed.  He slipped his swords back into their sheaths before taking another step towards her.  They should resolve this without bloodshed, if she would only listen.

“Get away from me!”

Her eyes flickered between him and the body of the Man. Thranduil used her distraction to move closer.  Only a few more steps and he would be close enough to disarm her…..she saw what he was doing, and he stopped when she raised the dagger again. This time, she pointed it at herself.  He was too far way. Even if he lunged for her, he could not reach her before she could drive its point through her throat.

“Ionien.  Drop the weapon.  It is over.”

The elves behind him moved just a fraction, as if unsure what they should do.  This was a new situation for them, being ordered not to harm someone they were to take prisoner.  It was also new that said prisoner would threaten to end their own life, and they must heed that warning.  Legolas moved for her, but stopped at his father’s shake of the head. 

Thranduil ordered them all to stay back.  To surround her now would be to invite her certain death.  He could not call a bluff he was unsure of.

_“You cannot continue to deny so integral a part of yourself, meleth.  It is time to stop trying.”_

To his horror, she dove into the moving river.  He lunged after her, but was prevented from diving in himself by Legolas.  It was such a deadly thing, the river. Thranduil watched with relief when Ionien finally surfaced.  He watched as the current carried her away from him.

“Eron,” he called, and a golden-brown elf stepped forward, “follow her, but do not engage. Mark where she comes out at the lake.”

“If she should become injured, my king?”

His mind refused to acknowledge that he might incur some injury in her swim, but he understood what the archer was asking.

“If she should become injured, and you can safely retrieve her, bring her to me.  Do nothing that would harm either of you.  I will follow soon enough.”

Eron nodded, and disappeared into the woods. Thranduil watched him leave dispassionately before turning his attention to the fallen human.  A northern ranger, the boy had said.  There would be no way to notify any kin.

“See to his burial.  We will not leave him for the wildlife.”

The others nodded, and Egnir and Amarthanor stepped up to take the body.  As much as it enraged Thranduil to acknowledge it, this man had been important to Ionien.  The body would be treated with respect, in accordance with their traditions.  He had no knowledge of how the people of the North handled death.

Amdiredhel stood waiting, patiently, and Thranduil swung up onto his back.  He could not immediately set off after Ionien.  He must supply himself first.  The woman was likely to lead him on a long and merry chase through the woods.  It would not be a simple retrieval, and he would not assume that it was.   He pointed the elk back toward the city, and with a word they were off.  He did not hear Legolas ask Tauriel of the fleeing woman’s significance, or Tauriel’s reply that she was now their queen.  Nor did he see his son staring after her departure.

 


	4. Flight and Pursuit

Ionien stayed in the river until the current died, and she reached still water.  With a groan, she dragged herself to the shore.  With no boat, or even a log to hold onto, she’d been carried along like a leaf, colliding with stones and limbs as the water hauled her away. She was tired, she was battered, and she felt as if her soul had been destroyed.

Feredir was dead.  Killed by the same pale elf who’d taken them prisoner. She’d caught up to him only to see him fall to that elf’s arrow.  And Tauriel had stood beside him as he loosed his fatal shot.  She wished she’d taken the elf’s life, or that he’d taken hers.

The call of a bird overhead reminded her of what she’d glimpsed in the water. An elf followed her.  Not Thranduil, thank Eru, or the blonde who’d so recently made her a widow.  This one was unknown to her.  She waited, tense, to see whether he would come down from the trees and attempt to capture her, but he seemed content to remain in his perch.  A hound sent to track her, then.

She clenched her teeth against the pain as she forced herself to her feet.  She could not lay and wait for Thranduil to collect her, though a small part of her demanded she do exactly that.  And come after her he would, else he would not have her followed.  As she stretched to her full height she took stock of her wounds. Her normally pale skin was marred with various scrapes and cuts, and she knew based on the pain that her torso and legs would be littered with bruises.  She couldn’t’ feel anything broken; a small mercy.

If that was the extent of her injuries, she must get moving.  She still had to get around the lake, or through it, to reach Dale.  It would take nearly two full days to reach the citadel at a full run, unless she found a boat to take her through the lake.  In her current condition, she doubted she could manage to swim the distance.

She very carefully ignored her shadow in the trees as she began to walk.  It wouldn’t be wise to alert him that she was aware of his presence.  Her priority must be to reach Dale, and escape him before that happened.  Thranduil couldn’t know about her daughter.  He might try to take her if he knew.

The sandy shoreline was not the best terrain to walk in.  Her legs screamed that they’d take enough abuse already as she trudged through the giving surface. She ignored the burn as she made her way along the river’s edge.  She would not stray into the interior of the woods.  She could too easily get turned around, and waste time trying to get back out. This was not an area with which she was comfortable or familiar.  She knew well the area surrounding Lake town, but this part of the river was crystal blue.  It had not yet begun to turn the murky color of the deep lake, which it would at the lake’s source. That was yet some indefinable distance away.  At least at this stretch of river she had a supply of fresh water.

She lost track of the hours she walked, noting only when the terrain underfoot changed.  The switch from sand to solid ground was a relief, thought it put her higher, father from the water than she liked.  The disappointment of not finding a boat for hire caused her to keep moving, even when her mind told her she needed to rest.  Her shadow was ever-present, and she would not sleep while he followed.

The sun beating directly overhead did nothing to ease the headache brewing from the dizzying swim and long travels. The pain grew steadily worse as she determined to ignore it, until it was suddenly gone. She had a good idea who was responsible for such luck, and cursed him.  If it wasn’t for Thranduil Oropherion’s arrogance, none of this would have happened.  She wouldn’t now be running for her freedom, Feredir’s body abandoned.  He wouldn’t’ even have a grave.

It was that thought that finally drew the tears she’d been suppressing. Mellessil had no father, and there would be no grave even to mark his passing.  There would be no memory of the man who’d given her so much.  In all her long years, she’d never felt such grief for a fallen husband.

She wished to shut out the world so that she could grieve in peace, but that was a luxury she could not afford.  She allowed herself several minutes to mourn, but the brown elf was still out there, and he would not be far off.  Indeed, when she could finally see through her tear, a water skin mocked her with its nearness.  Had the elf truly gotten so close while she was unaware?  Her eyes darted to the trees, but she could not see him anywhere. He must be actively concealing himself.

“I know you’re there,” she called as she pushed to her feet, dashing away tears, “go back to your King!  I’ll not return with you!”

There was no response to her challenge, but she didn’t expect one.  She looked to the water skin and debated leaving it behind.  The elf might have contaminated the water.  Perhaps he was only waiting for a time when she couldn’t fight back before he attempted to subdue her.  In the end, she decided to take it with her. She would not drink the water it contained, but she would rinse out and refill it with fresh water.

\------------------

“It was foolish of you not to seek transport across the lake.”

Ionien was startled by the baritone voice that spoke from nowhere.  As the sun had set, the night air cooled enough to need a fire, and she huddled before it to stay warm. She’d caught a fish from the lake, and she watched as it slowly cooked.  She’d almost allowed herself to hope that the elf had abandoned trailing her for the night.  It would seem all he’d abandoned was his intention to remain concealed.

“It is foolish of you to venture so close.  If you think to take me prisoner again, I warn you: I will not come easily.”

“You are exhausted, and injured, and young.  I think it would take little to capture you at this moment.”

“You may try.”

The elf materialized from shadow, and Ionien reached for the dagger she’d taken from Thranduil.  It was her only weapon.

“That would do you no good against a sword, penneth.”

“Should you like to see what I might accomplish with a dagger, Master Elf?”

The firelight gave the elf a golden glow.  Ionien watched him warily as he stepped closer to the warmth.  The urge to close her eyes was strong, but she fought sleep.  She didn’t trust anyone the elvenking would send.

“Eron is my name.  Not Master Elf.”

When did Mirkwood elves give their names so freely? Names held power.  He waited, almost expectantly. Ionien stayed silent.  She would not give this elf her name.

“Then I shall call you Penneth.”

Penneth.  Young one. This elf looked no older than she, but she could feel the age of him.  He was a few thousand years, at least.  More than twice her age.

Ionien shook her head and returned her focus to her fish, keeping one eye on Eron.  She was famished. She’d eaten nothing in Thranduil’s chamber, despite the scents that tempted her. Her last meal had been in the dungeon.  She needed the food if she was going to keep any energy.

“I know not why the king insists on having you back, Penneth, “ Eron continued as she ate the tender flesh, “but do you truly believe that when he comes for you, you will succeed in evading him as you try to evade me?”

“Do you think you can persuade me to return with you?”

The remains of the fish she buried near a plant that looked to be in poor shape.  As it decayed it would provide fertilizer, and strengthen the flora around it.  If the people in Lake Town had listened when she showed them how to do this, their diets would be much healthier. It was a simple thing to gather soil and seed into pots, and grow their own vegetables, rather than depend on the Master doling out what was traded.

The lights of Lake Town twinkled in the distance.  Ionien looked beyond that that, to the mountain that housed the treasure of Dwarf-kings past, and Dale. Dale was her destination.  The barge should have reached Lake Town, and by tomorrow Mellessil would reach Bard.  She had to get to her daughter, and away from this forest.

Smaug’s bones still littered the lake.  She’d seen them sticking up out of the water, a reminder of what had befallen the town.  In their haste to rebuild, no one had bothered to remove the dragon’s remains. That was a mistake.  Smaug might serve a great purpose in death, nourishing the soil of the land, but in the water he would only pollute.  All the fish in the lake could not have consumed the dragon’s meat, which would foul the water as it rotted.  The water was more tainted now than it ever was.  The master of Lake Town was a fool not to have addressed this years before.  How were the people of Lake Town surviving? Fish could be cooked, so that Smaug’s taint was nullified, but the people still needed fresh water.  Boiling might make it safe enough to cook, and bathe, but not to drink.

“Humans are so shortsighted.”

The comment from Eron, as well as the huff of disgust, told Ionien that he shared her opinion.  It was pure foolishness on the part of the Master to not dispose of the carcass properly.  Perhaps she might incite a revolt as she passed by, and remove the man from his position.

“Alfrid is the poorest Master I have seen in an age.”

“Alfrid Lickspittle is Master of Lake town?”

On second thought, she could kill him. That man destroyed too much.  And he’d dared ask for Sigrid’s hand!

“He’ll not be Mater of Lake town for much longer.”

Though she would find great amusement in watching Alfrid clash with Hindley, she would not leave the man in that position.  It was a wonder the people had not already revolted against him; he’d only barely survived after the battle at Erebor.  He should have been ended long ago.

“You should not be so eager to end a life, Penneth.”

“To end someone such as Alfrid is only slightly more odious than to end an orc.  The town would be better for his absence.”

“That is quite certain,” he surprised her by agreeing, “but his offenses are not so grave that you should wish for his death.”

“You do not know all of his offenses, Eron.”

To enumerate them would take too long.  She’d wasted too much time already.  She must continue to Dale, before Thranduil managed to catch up with her.  Eron was correct in that the elfking would come.  The ellon believed he had some claim to her.

“Do not make things worse for yourself, Penneth.”

“There is little that could be worse, Eron.”

“Thranduil wants you back unharmed.  That means he is not your enemy. The longer he must pursue you, the greater the likelihood that will change.”

Yes.  Thranduil would grow angry the longer she remained free. Ionien was all too aware of that fact.  But Thranduil’s anger could not reach her in Dale.  Not even the elvenking would attack an ally. She stamped out the remains of the cooking fire, and slung the water skin across her body. She’d thought to refill it at the lake, but she could not trust that water now.

“Penneth,” Eron cautioned, “do not give the king reason to be harsh in his judgment of you.”

She wondered that the elf still believed he might persuade her to surrender.

“Have you family, Eron?”

He seemed surprised by the question, but answered it regardless.

“A wife, and a daughter.”

“And would you ever forsake them?”

“Never.”

“Neither will I abandon mine.  Not for anything. Certainly not for Thranduil Oropherion.”

The step he made towards her was halted by the dagger she pointed at him. Eron had been kind, but he was still her adversary.  She would not forget that he was Thranduil’s vassal, and could not be trusted.

“You have a family?”

“A husband, dead today.  And a daughter waiting.  And if you ty to keep me from going to her, I will kill you.”

Eron wisely did not attempt to stop her from leaving. This complicated matters. Thranduil could not be aware that this elleth he sought had a family.  He had a sinking suspicion that the man Legolas slew was the woman’s husband.  Even if there was no child, she would not return easily after her husband died at Legolas’ hand.

He made no move to follow her as she disappeared into the night.  Her destination could only be Dale. There were no other human towns or settlements where the child could be waiting. It would be better to return to Thranduil and make him aware of this news.  It was not likely to end the king’s pursuit, but he should know.

Thranduil was not one to give up on something he wanted, not even when he was a young princeling like Legolas.  For some reason, Thranduil wanted this woman back in his halls.  The king would see that goal accomplished without regard for the damage he would inflict.  If he acted without knowing there was a child and brought the elleth back, Eron feared they would lose any hope of peace with her.

\------------------------------

Ionien climbed a tree and braced herself on a large branch.  Now that she wasn’t being followed by Eron, she would allow herself a few hours’ rest.  She still had much ground to cover, so a few hours were all she could afford. She intended to make the final leg of the journey to Dale before dawn broke.  With any luck, Eron was far away by now, and slowed by the darkness. 

She had little doubt that he would pick up her trail again.  She may have stunned him for the present, but she was certain that would wear of quickly.  Once he remembered he was supposed to track her for his king, he would resume his pursuit.  If the Valar were kind, the darkness would impede his search long enough for her to reach Dale and retrieve Mellessil. Satisfied that she was as safe as she could be, she closed her eyes.

She opened them again to discover that too much time had passed.  Dawn was already upon her; she’d slept far too long.  There was no time to lose.  She shimmied down the tree and took off running.  Thranduil could be anywhere.  He could be almost on top of her.

Good fortune, though, she was closer to Dale than she’d realized.  She’d covered more ground than she’d kept track of. She should reach Dale within three hours. The lake lay behind her, a reminder of things lost.  The rest of her journey would be up the hills to the city.

She moved faster, now that she could see the end in sight. Bard would be surprised at her arrival, and the children.  Unless he’d spoken directly with Helmund, he would not be expecting her appearance.  She was eager to see what had been rebuilt in the years since she’d been gone.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Thranduil was furious.  His plan to immediately set off was halted by the return of a group of scouts.  An orc pack had attacked a barge of humans; likely the very barge that had carried Bronwehel.  The orcs had been dealt with, but the humans were slaughtered.

The only survivor was the child that had been brought to him.  The child was not his concern.  Finding his wife was his concern. But when he would have turned her over to the healers, Astel stopped him.

Around the child’s neck was a finely braided chain of silver; a piece of jewelry that was elf-crafted. The intricacy of the piece was too sophisticated to come from another race.  That begged the question of how a child of no more than six years came to be in possession of such an item.

Thranduil cared not for the child.  She was fortunate to be alive at all.  The healers could see to her bruises and scratches, and she could be settled with an elf willing to take her in.  It was immaterial to him how a girl came by a chain from his people while his wife was on the run.  Astel could pursue the mystery to his heart’s content, with his blessing, if she would only leave him be.  He had an elleth to track.

“Aran, you must not leave.”

“Astel—“

The scout stopped him with a hand on his arm.  In all their years, even since they were children, she never touched him.  He looked down to where she gripped him, idly wondering if any of his people apart from Tauriel had dared to touch him since Legolas’ mother died.  He could not remember a single instance.

“You must see the jewel she wears, aran.”

Astel’s quiet insistence was sufficient for him to take a second look at the girl.  He focused on the piece that hung around her neck, and his eyes widened fractionally, the only sign of shock he would allow himself.  He recognized that jewel.  Strands of silver no thicker than a dried leaf were braided together into a chain that remained thin enough to easily work the seed crystals through. The jewel at its center shone the most brilliant light; blue starlight caught in a moonstone, it’s setting intricately carved.

Yes, Thranduil knew the piece very well.  He’d created it.  A gift for the one who relieved, however briefly, the agony of his injuries.  And she’d taken his gift and draped it around the neck of this child?!

“Who are you?”

Who could this child be that Ionien would re-gift his work to her?  It defied explanation.  The child shrank from him, and he worked to rein in his temper.  He would gain no answers if he terrified her.

“What is your name, child?”

“She had not spoken since she was recovered, aran.”

Yes, the child was doubtless traumatized.  Most likely she had witnessed he destruction of the barge he’d been on—of course.  If she wore Ionien’s jewel, then Ionien must have been on that barge with her. Bronwehel or Lostion should know this child. They could tell him who she was.

“Bring her,” he ordered, leading the way. The child clung to Astel, so he would leave her with the elleth.  He knew well that he could offer little comfort.  One of Edraithon’s apprentice healers nodded respectfully and rose when Thranduil stepped into Bronwehel’s room. She quickly slipped out to give her king his privacy. To his relief, Bronwehel was sitting up in the bed, looking much recovered.  She smiled at his presence.  She was a far cry to the elleth who only yesterday looked near death.

“Ada.”

“Bronwehel.”

He looked beyond her to the child who slept beside her.  Lying next to her only illuminated the ways in which the boy was not elf.  He seemed so much more human, in a place where humans did not venture often. 

But that was a concern for another time.  It was the human child Thranduil was focused on for the moment.  He must know who she was.  He turned aside to allow Astel to usher the girl into the room.  The child hurled herself at Bronwehel the moment she saw the familiar face.  The elleth caught and held the girl as she began sobbing, and looked to Thranduil for explanation.

“What brings her here?”

“Orcs destroyed the barge she travelled on.  She is the only survivor.  She wears a jewel—“

“It belongs to her mother.  The Ranger who brought me home.  Ionien.”

Thranduil had believed himself ready for any explanation that he might hear.  He was wrong.  Ionien had betrayed him? She bore another man’s child?

“Ada?”

“You are certain of this?”

Perhaps she was mistaken. The girl looked nothing like Ionien; surely she could not be her daughter.  Perhaps this child was some kin, or even a simple stray that Ionien had taken responsibility for.  Surely Bronwehel could not be correct.

“I am certain, Ada.  Her name is Mellessil, and she is the daughter of Ionien and Feredir.  Where are they?”

Where indeed?  Thranduil thought it likely that the dead man being prepared for burial was this Feredir.  Had Legolas rendered this child fatherless?  As for Ionien—she would be after the girl.  She’d left the child on the barge, which meant that she must plan to rejoin them somewhere.  Lake Town was the likely place.  If not there, then Dale. 

He would track her down and bring her home.  He had an advantage she simply could not overcome; he had her daughter. 

“I would leave the child in your care until we find her mother.”

It was a simple matter for Bronwehel to accept the offer. It was less simple to retrieve the jewel from the child.  She held fiercely to the piece, surprisingly so for a human child.  He finally succeeded when he promised that having the stone would make it easier to bring her mother.  He would need something to prove to Ionien that he did have her daughter.  He did not dare bring the child herself.  He was no fool.

The elves that saw him as he stalked through the halls immediately made way for him.  He could only imagine the expression he wore that made his people wary of him.  His mind would not leave the fact that Ionien had betrayed him.  His wife had abandoned him to ally herself with a mortal. The child he’d left with Bronwehel should have been his, and instead…….he froze in his step.  The girl looked nothing like Ionien, nor did he think she looked much like the mortal Legolas had killed.  She did, however, look a great deal like Legolas, and she was of the proper age, when one considered that elflings did not age as quickly as mortal children.  The child could well be his.  Had Ionien not just abandoned him, but concealed his child from him?  He WOULD have an answer for that insult as soon as he found her.

He summoned Amdiredhel to him as he shoved another weapon into his sword belt. He was travelling alone on this mission, so he must be prepared.  Andrathon appeared with Eron in tow as he slung a saddlebag across the great elk’s back.

“You have returned alone?”

“It is a more complex situation than we had believed aran.”

“I am aware of the child, Eron. She is here.”

“Here?”

“Yes, the child is here. Now, where is the mother?”

“Hîr nín, you must allow one of us to travel with you.”

It was Andrathon who spoke, and Thranduil spared a glance for his seneschal.  The ellon had been almost a brother to Legolas, ever since his own had died.  Barhador could never be replaced, but Andrathon had helped to make the void less.  He was one of the few who dared to speak openly to his king, after spending so long in the king’s household. Thranduil knew it was concern that spurred his seneschal to speak, but this was one time he would not heed the advice. 

“I go alone.  Now tell me where she was going?”

The two elves exchanged a look, but did not challenge their king further.  Andrathon would prefer that Thranduil not travel alone, but he knew better than to make the suggestion a second time.  He deferred to Eron.

“She was making her way to Dale, aran.  She was to meet the child there. But there is—“

He was cut off as Thranduil swung up on to the elk’s back and set off.  Andrathon shook his head, but set off in search of Legolas.  He might not be able to order Thranduil into anything, but his prince would never allow the king to wander the forest alone.

\---------------------

Thranduil knew the moment he was no longer alone, but he was surprised that it was Legolas who followed him.  He’d expected Eron to disregard his orders.  Instead it was his son’s horse that followed Amdiredhel into the clearing.

“I was expecting Eron.”

“He knows that, which is why I am here instead.  He wished to avoid your anger.”

“And you do not?”

It was fruitless to argue with his son when his mind was made up. Thranduil accepted that he would have company on this journey.  Ordinarily he would welcome Legolas’ presence, but after the day’s events he feared it might only make things more difficult.

“Tauriel says this woman is our new queen.”

From his tone, Legolas hoped the answer would be a contradiction. Thranduil sighed.  His son was entirely ignorant of the event, as were nearly all of his people.  There would be many explanations required before everyone was satisfied.

“It happened in the months after the battle for Erebor.  She travelled with the sons of Elrond, and stayed for a time.”

He left it there.  He would not recount the months of Ionien’s company, or the betrayal when she ran from him.  Those memories were personal, and more precious to him than nearly any others.

“And she left?”

“She did.”

 She left.  To be accurate, she fled.  The morning after their bonding he woke to find his bed cold and empty. All trace of her disappeared from the chambers that she’d occupied.  It was as if she thought she could remove what happened if she removed herself.

“According to Eron, she claimed the mortal man as husband,” Legolas offered after they’d travelled for some time.  Thranduil nearly lost his seat.  It was bad enough that Ionien had run from him to another when they were bonded, but to claim that man as husband? It was impossible.

“It matters not what claims she made.  We are bonded, and I will see her returned home.”

He could not reach her mind, which made him uneasy.  They could not reach Dale quickly enough to suit him.  He regretted not being able to leave the previous day. Because he’d waited out the night, Ionien would reach the city, and it would be more difficult to retrieve her.

Legolas chose not to voice his concerns to his father as they rode.  Never before had he heard of an elf attempting to run from a bond, and yet this elleth had done so, twice.  He did not believe it would be so easy to recover her as Thranduil seemed to hope.

 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

“Da, come quick!”

Ionien could hear Tilda’s cry fill the hall.  If Bard was within the building, he would hear that summons.  Tilda had grown into a lovely young woman.  She was surprised that Bard hadn’t found a husband for her yet. . Bard was fully mortal; he would not be around forever. Even if there was no great hurry, Tilda was past the age that most mortal girls married.  Surely there must have been offers?

“Tilda, what is it?”

The question died on Bard’s lips as he pulled the door completely open.  The attendants guarding the door were almost shoved out of the way as Bard rushed through, Tilda behind him.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded as he pulled her into a hug.  She returned it hesitantly.  She might not be a full-blooded elf, but she’d never become comfortable with such human gestured, not even from her own kin.

“We did not look for you. What brings you to Dale?” he asked again as he finally released her.  His eyes flicked from hers, looking for something he did not find.

“Feredir is not with you?”

She shook her head, willing the tears to stay back. She could not face Mellessil a weeping mess.  She had she her tears for Feredir, and perhaps there would be more later, but that time was not now.

“He fell on the journey.”

She would say no more; explanations would take too much time. Dale was unlikely to be a safe haven for very long.

“Ionien, I’m so sorry.”

She was pulled in for another embrace, and she could hear in Bard’s words the heartbreak she could no longer express herself. Behind them, Tilda looked as though she might burst into tears as well.

“Where is Mellessil?” Ionien asked as she finally pulled free.  “We cannot stay long.”

“Who is Mellessil?”

The genuine confusion in Bard’s question stopped Ionien in her tracks.  What could he mean?  Helmund would certainly have told them who Mellessil was when he dropped her off.

“Where is my daughter?  Helmund brought her to you yesterday.”

“No child has been brought here.”

That couldn’t be right.  The barge would have reached Lake Town that same night.  Helmund and those coming to Dale would have set out yesterday morning, and certainly would arrive by afternoon.  Ionien had given exact directions so that Helmund would now where to bring Mellessil, and with whom to leave her. She must be here.

She pushed past Bard, ignoring Tilda’s questioning.  Mellessil must be here somewhere.  Bard could have easily missed her arrival if he was busy with other matters.

“Mellessil!”

 Bard followed her, attempting to explain that no strangers had arrived in Dale, but he could not make himself heard over her cries.  He could see that she was beginning to frighten Tilda.

“Ionien, there is no child here!”

“She must be here!”

She moved from room to room, opening door after door, until Bard grabbed her and forced her to stop. 

“Ionien!  There is no child here!”

He practically shook her as she tried to pull away.  The harsh words when she fought against his hold died on his lips when he took in her state.  He quietly ordered the onlookers who’d stepped out to return to their duties.

“What happened?”

“We separated from the barge in Mirkwood.  They would have reached Lake Town, and Helmund would have brought her to you yesterday.”

“Your daughter?”

“Yes, my daughter.”

The king of Dale thought he could be forgiven for needing a moment to process the idea that Ionien had a child.  That had not been the case the last time they saw each other.  Nor had she given any indication that she was looking to have another child, unless Feredir had talked her into it.

But the fact that the child existed was far less important than her current whereabouts.  Something must have happened to prevent this Helmund from bring the child to him. They must learn what that something was. 

“We’ll head toward Lake Town, and take the route they would have taken.”

 With any luck, they would find this group of travelers on the road.  He ordered horses ready, and all too soon they were picking their way along the road to the lake, a small guard trailing behind them.  It was, quite frankly, tedious to travel with such an entourage, but he knew better than to try to lose them.  He’d done that only once, but the resulting panic of the people had prevented him from ever doing so again, though it had been terribly necessary at the time.

“We will find them, Ionien.”

The words were meant to be reassuring, but he hoped that they were true.  He did not know that Ionien would survive losing child and husband on the same day.  If they were fortunate, the group that was to come to Dale was simply delayed.

It was harder to remain encouraging as the hours passed, and there was no sign of travelers. There was only one road from the shores of Esgaroth to Dale. There should have been some sign by now that anyone else had come this route, but there was nothing.  None of the few crofters they’d passed had seen a group come up from Lake Town. Their best hope was that this Helmund had been prevented from leaving the town as they wished. He wouldn’t put it past Alfrid to try to tax travelers passing through.

“My lord, it’s sundown in two hours. Do we camp for the night, or do we stay in Lake Town?”

They did lose daylight much sooner as the winter drew near.  They would not make it back to Dale before it grew full dark.

“We’ll make camp. See to it while we conduct our business.”

It was more dangerous to camp in the open, but he wouldn’t spend a night in an area that fell under Alfrid’s control.  Only a fool would sleep anywhere near a man such as Alfrid and expect not to be robbed blind before he woke. Bard was much more comfortable with the idea of a lake between him and Alfrid at night.

It was disheartening to question the boatman at the dock and learn that no strangers had come through in the last two days, but Bard still clung to the hope that they would reach Lake Town and find Mellessil among its inhabitants.  He could not bear to see the expression on Ionien’s face.  It reminded him far too much of Estswith’s expressions, just before the end. 

He disliked the silence as Ionien ignored them all when they boarded the boat and got underway.  Like all elves of his acquaintance, she was naturally quiet, but this was utter stillness.  This was not natural in her.  He knew that she would grieve the loss of Feredir; he prayed that she would not also face the grief of losing a child.  That would be too much for anyone to bear, even her. What happened, that they were separated from this barge of travelers, and their daughter? Bard could not fathom what could cause Ionien to leave her child in the care of another and venture into Mirkwood.

Finally, the boat pulled to dock in front of the largest house on the lake. Bard could only shake his head at the garishness of the house, when everyone else on the lake barely had a roof over their head. Alfrid truly needed some sense knocked into him. Bard had half a mind to set Tilda to the task. After receiving the man’s marriage proposal, his youngest child had a very definite attitude as to how Alfrid should be treated.

“We’re here.”

It seemed unnecessary to make such an announcement, but Ionien was genuinely startled at his words.  They stepped off the boat, and Bard knocked on the door before she could simply barge in. Much as he would enjoy watching Alfrid attempt to intimidate Ionien, it would be in no one’s best interest to allow the weasel to provoke her.

“What do you want?”

Bard mentally counted to five before speaking. Alfrid was just as unpleasant as ever. 

“We’re looking for a group of strangers who should have passed through here two days ago.”

“Well keep lookin’ somewhere else.  Ain’t no strangers here.”

When Alfrid would have shut the door on them, Bard’s hand shot out to keep it open.   If Alfrid ever wondered why the traders avoided Lake Town whenever possible, he need only look in the mirror.  The Master of Lake town had much to learn about dealing with others courteously, but Bard had not the time to teach him.  Ionien looked as if she might at any moment begin tearing down the town in search of her child.

“This is no time to be difficult, Alfrid.  A barge carrying a large group sailed down the river two days ago. This was their destination.”

“The only thing that come down from the river is a bunch of scrap.  Ain’t no one come to this town that don’t belong here in weeks, except you.  I’d say your boat met a bad end.”

“Be very sure of what you’re saying, Alfrid. This is no light matter.”

“You’re not the Master ‘round here, Bard,” Alfrid countered, sneering at him, “so I’d suggest you watch your tone when you come askin’ me for favors.”

“I’m not the one asking, Alfrid,” Bard answered calmly, refusing to rise to the man’s baiting, “and I don’t think you want to challenge her.”

Alfrid gulped as he looked from one to the other.  Bard was willing to lay money that the weasel would soil himself if he stood for too much longer under Ionien’s unrelenting stare.

“I mean it, no one’s come here.  The fishermen have been pulling in wooden debris all day, that’s probably your boat.  Go check it if you want.” 

The scraggly man flung an arm, pointing towards a dock piled high with something that Bard could not easily identify. As he watched, fishermen lifted something from their boat and threw it on top of the pile. Without another word to Alfrid, he released the door and set off for the dock, Ionien in tow. 

The few people walking about quickly moved out of their way as they passed, until they reached the dock.  It was piled his with scraps of wood that did look as if they’d come from a boat.  Some of the town’s inhabitants had begun to separate the pieces into sections, a task he remembered from his own residence on the lake.  Those pieces that could be put to use in repairing the buildings were being set to one side, to begin the drying process, while those pieces that were too small or too damaged would be used in the people’s fire places.  Nothing in the town was allowed to go to waste.

On close inspection he could see that the scraps did indeed come from a boat.  Pieces of the wheel landed in the pile for burning, pieces of decking that weren’t terribly charred were in the pile to be used.  This boat had certainly met a bad end, but the question was whether it was the boat that Ionien was looking for.   So far he didn’t see anything that would identify the vessel.   He picked up one piece, but there was nothing distinguishing about the wood.

Behind him he heard more than saw Ionien doing the same, inspecting the pieces that were laid out.  A strangled cry alerted him that she’d found something, and that all was not well.  He spun around to discover that she held a piece of the rudder, and there was symbol carved into it.  He didn’t recognize the mark, but her bloodless complexion was evidence enough that it meant something to her. 

“She might still be alive.”

He wanted to offer better comfort than that, but it felt futile to do so.  Something terrible had happened to this vessel and its passengers, and the odds were low that the child had survived it.  The scorch marks proved there had been a fire, and there were scars from arrows.  The vessel had fallen under some sort of attack. 

“We’ll keep looking, as soon as the sun comes up.”

He received no response to that, and when he touched her hand he found it cold as ice. 

“Ionien, we’ll not give up.”

She swayed on her feet, and without another word he scooped her up into his arms and carried her back to their waiting boat.  There was no point in staying in the town. There was nothing more that could be done now that full dark had set in.  

The movement seemed to spur something, for she twisted in his arms, trying to break his hold. 

“We have to get to the forest.  If something happened to the ship, then they’re in the forest.”

“We can’t go into Mirkwood in the dark, Ionien. It’s too dangerous. We’ll go at first light.”

“No, we have to go now!”

She succeeded in breaking his hold, and as soon as she was on foot she sprinted for the water. Bard lunged after her.  There were too many dangers in the forest, especially at night.  They couldn’t go running off with no plan or defense; they would likely end up dead themselves, and no use to the child.  Ionien didn’t seem to understand, or care, about the dangers, and as a father he could understand that, but he couldn’t let her go off and get herself killed.  When she dove off the dock and into the water, he dove right after her, and after a full minute’s pursuit he managed to overtake her.  She was fleet, but he was stronger, and as soon as he had a grip on her he pulled her into a hold she couldn’t escape.

“Release me!”

“It’s too late, Ionien!   It’s too late!”

“She’ll die out there if we wait until morning!”

He started kicking towards the boat, which was fortunately coming towards them.  His hands were too occupied with keeping a hold on the struggling woman, who seemed determined to make him swallow as much of the lake as possible. He didn’t want to think about what was in this water alongside the dragon’s bones.  When they finally reached the boat, he struggled to keep a hold on Ionien and get her inside the vessel.  The boatman had to help pull her in, and actually sit on her to keep her inside as Bard hauled himself in.  He took the boatman’s place, keeping all of his weight on her to keep her down as the boat moved back towards the shore. 

“It’s too late!  We can go at first light, but if you go out there now you’ll just get yourself killed!”

 

A punch landed squarely on his eye, but he kept his hold until she tired out, and stopped struggling. By the time they reached the shore, she’d stopped moving altogether, and Bard had to carry her out of the boat, and into the tent.  Her current state was even more alarming than her previous stillness; she didn’t react in the slightest when he stripped her out of her soaking wet clothes and wrapped her in a blanket, or when he pushed her into laying down on one of the camp beds that had been set up.  She looked as if she was already grieving her daughter’s death.  His fear now was that they wouldn’t find the child alive.  He didn’t know that Ionien would survive it.

 


	5. Recovery

Thranduil urged Amdiredhel into a faster gait. He was anxious to get to Dale, now that the sun had risen.  They’d stopped for only a few hours to rest, and he was tired, but he would not let that stop him.  He could imagine all too well Ionien’s suffering if she believed her daughter to be lost.  He must put that to rest as soon as possible.

He’d attempted to reach her through their link as they drew closer to Dale, but she was still shutting him out. The effort to overcome her resistance was too great a distraction when travelling through Mirkwood, so he abandoned the idea.  She likely wouldn’t believe him regardless, but it pained him that he could not set her mind at ease immediately.

The hours spent traveling yesterday provided no answer for Ionien’s behavior. Nothing could account for her running from him, or taking up with a mortal.  That fact still plagued his mind, refusing to grant him peace.  What could he have possibly done to send his wife running in fear?  He knew his temper, but she’d never let that bother her.  In fact his greatest vexation was her ability to treat his explosions as though they’d never happened, when anyone else would immediately tread with caution. He’d certainly never raised a hand to her, or treated her cruelly.  Her flight made no sense.

Legolas kept his questions to a minimum, for which Thranduil was thankful. He simply didn’t know how to explain to his son what he didn’t know himself, nor did he wish to discuss the topic of his first marriage.  Legolas’ memories of his mother should not be poisoned by his parents’ failed relationship.  Baralindes had been a loving mother and dutiful queen; that was all that Legolas should know of her.  The boy shouldn’t have to know of his mother’s inability to accept the ruin of a husband who’d come back from an encounter with a dragon and the loss of a father.  Of the early days when the pain was so great that he would let the illusion slip in the privacy of their bedroom, and she would recoil in terror. Baralindes had been a brave woman, but not strong enough to help her husband bear his demons, and who in the end had chosen to abandon them all in death.

 “Do you think you will find her once we reach Dale?”

“I will find her.”

So close he would be able to track her through their bond, if it became necessary, but first he would go to Bard. A group of mortals the size that his scouts suggested would doubtless have to present themselves to the leader of any city they travelled to. If Ionien wished to find them, she would start with where she expected them to be.

The chill in the air was the first hint that the coming winter would be a heavy one. He hoped that Bard and his people were well prepared for it.  The mortals’ harvest festival would take place soon; he’d already received a request from Bard to trade for a few bottles of his Dorwinion.  He’d also received an invitation to attend along with his people, and the dwarves of Erebor. He’d intended to ignore the invitation, as he did every year, but he might reconsider that.  Perhaps Ionien would like to attend to it. She did have some sort of attachment to the king of Dale.

At last, they started the trek up the foothills into Dale. He’d not set foot in these hills in five years, not since he’d come to witness the union of Bard’s eldest daughter to Fili, King Under the Mountain.  At least that was a better match than the one proposed by the Master of Lake Town, even if Fili was a dwarf. He’d not yet heard of any children, but he expected that would only be a matter of time.  The dwarves would have a mixed-blood for a ruler in the future.  How that would have driven Oakenshield mad if he’d survived to see it.

After what seemed an eternity, the city of Dale came into view, looming before them. The city he’d seen in the distance for too many hours was at last arrived at.  Thranduil found his heart racing at knowing they were so closed.  He should have his wife back and be on the road home in less than an hour.  He silently vowed that he would not lose his temper with Ionien when he finally did retrieve her.  She would be worried over her child at the very least, and at worst she would be in the grief of thinking her daughter was dead. It would not be the time for admonishments.

The gates of the city stood open as they approached, and the guards on the wall acknowledged them immediately. If the elvenking ever wished to be anonymous, he would find it impossible in Dale.  Too many people remembered his face for him to ever be mistaken for a random elf, even when he travelled in utter simplicity, with nothing to identify his rank.  He’d not even worn a circlet to mark his position.  Legolas was eyed less trustfully, but as he travelled with Thranduil he was allowed in unmolested.  Thranduil had only ever seen the gates closed at night, but Bard was wise to always have a guard on watch.

If he was not so focused on the task at hand, Thranduil would admire what the humans managed to accomplish in a few short years. Most of the old city had been restored, and new sections were being added. They rode through streets that teemed with construction work; buildings repaired and strengthened and new structures slowly taking shape.  All were signs of a healthy city. But Thranduil paid no heed to any of it as he kept Amdiredhel on the road to the Great Hall.

Curious humans stuck their heads out of windows as they passed, and one enterprising child even succeeded in making a break through the door, forcing the elvenking to pause in his journey or trample the boy. An anxious mother frantically scooped the child up and darted out of the way, curtseying once she made it to the safety of her doorway.  Thranduil nodded in acknowledgement as he nudged the great elk back into a run, his eyes already on something farther away.  Those who lined his path were forgotten as soon as he passed them, so focused was he on one person in particular.  His singleness of purpose was enviable.

“Perhaps you should remain here, Legolas,” he ordered when they finally reached the Great Hall, “we do not want a repeat of the woods.”

Much as he appreciated his son’s company, he knew that Ionien would not react well to seeing her mortal’s executioner. Persuading her to return would only be made more difficult by confrontation.  He needed to see her alone.

With a deep inhale, he swung off Amdiredhel’s back and took the steps two at a time. The doors to the hall swung open, and his entrance stopped the humans in their tracks. A maidservant nearly dropped her burden when she laid eyes on the elvenking, only barely managing to keep her grip on the tray. A boy finally regained his senses and darted out of the hall, returning moments later with Bard’s youngest daughter.

“My lord Thranduil? We did not expect you.”

“I must speak with your father concerning a grave issue.”

“I’m afraid Da’s not here. There’s been a family emergency.  Da rode for Lake Town yesterday. He hasn’t made it back.  Is there something I can help you with?”

He fleetingly wondered what sort of family emergency could take Bard to Lake Town, unless that sorry excuse for a Master had actually asked for this child’s hand as he had the eldest. But he quickly dismissed it from his thoughts.

“I seek a woman who would have arrived yesterday. A healer called—“

“Ionien? She’s off to Lake Town with Da.  If you want to wait for them, I’m sure they’ll be back today.”

Thranduil turned on his heel and left the hall, not even remembering to take his leave of the human. If Ionien and Bard had travelled to Lake Town the previous day, then he’d spent hours riding in the wrong direction.  He’d likely passed within a quarter mile of them on his trek form the lake to the city.

They must have gone to Lake Town in search of the child. If that was so, then they could be anywhere still looking.  His task may have just been made infinitely more difficult.  Instead of collecting her from her hiding place, he would likely have to run her down.  The last time that happened, her human was killed, and she came close herself with that dive into the current.  Such a thing MUST NOT happen a second time.

They should have taken the most direct path form the city to the lake shore, so that was the path Thranduil would take. If necessary they would retreat to the opposite end of the lake and spread out a search.  He hoped it would not come to that.

Legolas fell into step beside him when he swung onto Amdiredhel’s back. Their journey out of the city drew just as much attention as their journey in.  Perhaps it was better that he didn’t leave the humans with the image of an enraged peredhel fighting to escape as their memory of this visit.  He wished to maintain peaceful relations with these people.

The road down the hill was well-marked, and they made far better time than two humans would, even on horseback. In only two and a half hours they reached the lake shore. It was a surprise to Thranduil to find a series of tents erected at the water’s edge.  Settlement so near the lake was strictly controlled because of the water’s importance to so many.  But perhaps they were simply travelers camping for a night.  He may have to address the issue with Bard if it became a pattern.

“Do you see her?” Legolas questioned as they visually scanned the lake, and the inhabitants of Lake Town. Thranduil saw no sign of Ionien, though he knew she must be somewhere.  Still, he could feel that she was nearby.  He would search every inch of the lake shore if necessary, but he would find her.

“If they’ve come through here, the boatman would know.”

A wise thought from his son. It should have occurred to Thranduil, but the elvenking was preoccupied with attempting to contact his wife.  If he could just trace her through their bond---but that was elusive. 

The human scrambled to his feet as he was approached by the pair of elves, nearly dropping the apple he’d only just bitten into. Elves were a more common sight than they used to be, but nothing could truly prepare for the sight of these elves in particular. Even in simple hunting leathers, so pale an elf was a striking sight.

“Can I help you, Master Elf?”

“I seek the king of Dale. He would be travelling with a woman.”

“Oh, aye. Bard. That’s his tent behind you. He and that woman ran off first light, looking for something in the wood. They’re due back any moment.”

He could spend days searching the wood and not find them. As much as it grated on him to do nothing, is best course of action would be to wait.  Bard must return soon; he could not be away from his city long, for he had no seneschal who could oversee the running of it in his absence.  The son, Bain, was an acceptable substitute for a short time, but he was still learning what it meant to rule.  He was not ready to be left in charge for long stretches.  Thranduil was fortunate to have Andrathon, who was more than capable of seeing to his kingdom.

“Is the woman not mortal?”

Legolas’ question was a surprise, and Thranduil turned his attention to his son. Legolas’ expression was troubled, as though faced with a puzzle he could not solve.

“Ionien is peredhel, but she is not mortal.”

“She does not appear to be eldar.”

On first glance, she did not. She was not as pale as the elves; she looked more human in physical form, save for her pointed ears.  Thranduil had often contemplated her other origins, for he suspected that it was not merely Elf and Man that had created his wife, but he was uncertain if even she knew her full parentage.

“She is many things.”

What she was most at this moment: infuriating. She was out there, somewhere, and he could not see her.  He did attempt to speak to her mind, but she was blocking him.  In the short time she’d been away, she’d become much better able to keep him out.  It was not a perfect block, but it was good enough to keep him from summoning her.   There were few races capable of such a feat.

She would not hear that her child was safe. If she had not run from him, a second time, she would even now be with her daughter, not searching desperately.  He had the answers she sought, and if she’d only stayed as she should have, she would have saved herself needless suffering.

Their wait was not so long as it could have been. Only two hours passed before a small boat carrying Bard and Ionien pulled towards the dock.  Thranduil was horrified to see the state of her.  She was fading; he could see it.  Bard was the only thing holding her upright.   Thranduil wasted no time in swinging from Amdiredhel’s back and stalking to the boat before it could tie off.

“My lord Thranduil!”

Bard sounded shocked to see him, and the elvenking had to wonder what Ionien had told him. If she’d told him the truth, he should have expected Thranduil’s arrival. Had she lied about her arrival into his city, and the events that preceded it?  Thranduil did not know his wife’s relationship with the Bowman.  He could not say what tales she might spin.

The fact that Ionien did not acknowledge at all his arrival was the more important concern. She could not leave him.  She could not leave their child.

_“Do not do this, Meleth. Your child is safe.   You must come with me, and I will take you to her.”_

“Thranduil, now is not a good time—“

He scooped Ionien into his arms, ignoring the human’s objections. She did not struggle.  She did not react in any way, which told Thranduil that she was gone far into her grief. He must act quickly to ensure she did not fade completely.  They were bonded, their feär joined. He could anchor her to him, but they must have solitude.  With no word to Bard, he carried Ionien into the nearby tent with a soft order to Legolas to ensure that they were not disturbed. Calling someone back was no easy task; he could afford no interruptions.

_“Come back to me, Ionien. Come back to your daughter.”_

Bard’s tent was not an ideal location for this. They were too close to the fishing village, and the humans who proximity prevented the absolute solitude needed. It was far easier to be surrounded by the stillness of his own people, whose thoughts and actions would lend support to his own, not distract from them.  But there was not enough time to reach the Halls.  Not without at least a basic action first.

_“You must not leave, meleth n_ _în.”_

The spark of light that all elves possessed was fading in her, and he reached for it with his own. Thranduil nursed that flicker with his stronger flame until it returned to a tiny but steady glow.  It was a task made more difficult because she was not full-blooded, but he kept to it until it was accomplished, leaving traces of his own light behind to ensure it did not go out again.  He would know it, now, if it threatened to extinguish.

He ignored his fatigue when her light was tenuously tethered to his, and carried her to Amdiredhel. Bard stood just outside the tent, Legolas acting as a barrier to keep him out.  His son released the human at their emergence from the tent, and Bard was at the elk more quickly than Thranduil would have expected.

“What are you doing, Thranduil?”

“It does not concern you, Bard,” the elvenking answered as he laid Ionien across the elk’s back, before swinging up himself. As soon as he was seated he settled Ionien in front of him, caging her safely in his arms.

“Anything that involves Ionien very much concerns me. We are searching for someone.  You cannot take her.”

Thranduil ignored the human as he urged the elk to make for home with all possible speed. He had not time to bother with further explanations.  He must get Ionien home as quickly as possible.  He could not wait, even for Legolas to satisfy Bard’s concerns.   His son would make his own way back to the halls (likely with the human in tow.  He remembered Bard’s stubbornness.), of that he had no doubt.  At the rate Amdiredhel covered the ground, they would be home before nightfall.

\----------------------------------------------

True to Thranduil’s expectations, Bard rode through the gates to his halls less than a full day later. The Man must not have even returned to Dale before coming.  The small guard that accompanied him looked uncomfortable at being underground, but Tauriel ignored that as she escorted them through.  Her king had given orders that she would follow; Bard must be brought to the royal wing.

Since their return Thranduil had not set foot outside his chamber door. Servants came and went.  Andrathon entered on more than one occasion to consult on some business, but the elvenking remained secluded. Rumor had begun to circulate in the absence of word from the king. Those who remembered Ionien from before tended to be particularly uncharitable, claiming that she was seducing their king behind closed doors. Tauriel had seen the healer when they arrived, and thought it far more likely that her king was tending some injury to his queen.  He would have a difficult time of it until he announced to all his people that he and Ionien were bonded.

Tauriel turned down the hall that contained the royal wing. The moment she did so, the number of curious elves that stooped their tasks to stare dropped drastically.  Only those tending to the royal family were permitted free access.  Here at least Bard would not be watched so closely.

“Where are we going?”

“To see the king.”

Bard would be the first human to set foot in this hall. Never had Tauriel expected to see such a day arrive.  She led the man past Bronwehel’s door, and Legolas’, until she arrived at Thranduil’s. The carpenters had not yet seen to the damage caused after Ionien escaped.  Her king’s patience on that score would soon run out. Bard’s face betrayed his curiosity over the state of the door when he reached it, but fortunately he remained silent on the subject. A brief knock produced the command to enter, and Tauriel opened the door to allow the human entry.  Before the door closed behind her, she could see that Ionien had yet to move.

Bard was shocked to find himself in Thranduil’s bedroom. In the last ten years he had, on more than one occasion, been invited to Mirkwood to conference with the elves, but never had he set foot in the king’s private apartments.  He’d ventured only into his guest room and the public areas of the halls.

He was astounded by the beauty of the room. Like all others it was carved from the mountain itself, or perhaps even a natural cavern, but the stone was polished to a smooth shine in the firelight.  This room, however, also received natural light: in the center of the ceiling, the stone had been removed and the opening inlaid with glass through which the sun shone, giving the room an airy quality most of the halls lacked.  An alcove recessed into the wall allowed the bed to occupy almost a separate space, the sheer hanging curtains giving the illusion of privacy when drawn.  It must have taken teams of elves years to get the king’s room into such condition.

Sigrid would love this room. Fili had seen to alterations in their rooms under the mountain, going to great trouble to make it seem as un-cavelike as possible, but there was only so much that could be done; it was still a home carved into a mountain. With time, and perhaps some elven labor, Sigrid’s room could be made to be more like this.  He might have to suggest it to Fili as part of the trade proposals.

A glance at the bed, and the woman in it, reminded Bard why he was in the elvenking’s halls. He tore his attention from the architecture and focused on the elf sitting beside the fire.  Thranduil was watching him, his expression both wary and crafty.  With a regal nod he gestured for Bard to take the empty chair.

“What are you doing, Thranduil?” the human asked without preamble.

“You will have to be more specific.”

“You’ve kidnapped a woman, and you hold her child hostage? This is unlike you.”

The elfking’s eyes flashed before sliding carefully into blankness as he picked up a cup of wine and offered it to his guest.

“Perhaps you don’t know me so well as you thought.”

Bard refused to rise to the baiting. Nothing Legolas had said on the journey made any sense, and he refused to leave without answers. Answers he knew he wouldn’t get if he sank into an argument.

“The child is no hostage,” Thranduil finally answered after a drink of his own; “She was the sole survivor of an orc attack. My guard found her and brought her here for her safety.”

An orc attack. That would explain why the barge never made it to Lake Town. He was saddened for those who lost their lives.  An orc attack was a horrible way to die.  Ionien would feel the weight of that loss keenly; she would feel responsible for leaving them.  That was news she did not need.

“And yet you refused the opportunity to return her to her mother.”

“They will be reunited as soon as Ionien wakes,” the elf countered.

“They could have been reunited yesterday. You did not need to bring Ionien here to accomplish that.”

“Her presence here is necessary.”

“On what grounds?”

“On the grounds that as my wife, this is her home, and it is time she returned to it.”

Bard nearly spit out the wine he’d just sipped, choking on it as he swallowed. The elfking claimed Ionien as a wife?  What game was this?

“By the Fires, what did you do yesterday?”

“Yesterday? We wed ten years ago, some months after Erebor.”

 “That’s impossible.  Her husband died just days ago.”

“The mortal she claimed as husband is irrelevant. We were already bonded.”

“That mortal has been her husband for twenty-seven years. That supersedes whatever bonding you think you have.”

Bard hadn’t thought it possible for Thranduil to have such an expression as he wore. It was a look of pure shock and disbelief, combined with intense pain.  Whatever the elfking had done with Ionien to consider them wed, he did not appear to have considered she might already be attached.

“That is not possible.”

“I can assure you, it is.”

“She would have said something, made mention of him.”

“Would you have listened?”

He watched as Thranduil drained his cup of wine, fixing his gaze on the woman in his bed. Bard could hardly believe that this conversation was taking place.  Ionien would not abandon her marriage, so how could Thranduil think that they were wed?  Even if she had been free, she’d never met Thranduil before the battle; she would not have pledged herself to an elf after only a few months.  What happened in those months she spent in Mirkwood?

“Why do you say you’re married? She would never make vows to another when she had a husband living.”

“We were wed under the stars, in the way of elves.”

From what Bard had gleaned in his dealings with elves over the years, Thranduil was saying that they’d been sexually intimate. That claim was startling in itself.  Ionien wasn’t one to treat marriage vows lightly, or give her favors to another man.  She could not have intended to break with Feredir; certainly not if she returned to him.  There was only one likely explanation.

“She could not have known the significance of the act.”

The elfking scoffed, and Bard ground his teeth together to keep from pointing out that it was probably that same failure to listen that caused the entire problem. Fires, but Thranduil could be a stubborn ass when he wished.

“She’s spent very little time among elves, Thranduil. She was not raised among them. It would be foolish in the extreme to presume that she knows everything about elves, simply because she carries elven blood.”

A log in the grate collapsed, drawing Bard’s attention. The fire was dying out, the room was sweltering, but Ionien huddled unmoving under a mountain of blankets.  Bard felt sure that if he reached out a hand to touch her, she would still be cold. She seemed half gone from the world already.

If she died, who would be left to remember her once he and the children were gone? They were mortal, even if the children would live longer than he could ever have hoped to achieve. Once they passed, it would be the end of all who knew her, as the signs were easily seen that the elves were not long for Middle Earth. Bard wouldn’t be surprised if they left in his children’s lifetime.

What of Ionien’s own child? According to Thranduil, Mellessil was in this very hall. What would become of her if Ionien died?  Bard would take her in, if necessary.  With Feredir gone, she would have no other family.

The elfking could not seem to take his eyes off Ionien. The last time Bard had seen such an expression of concern cross the elf’s face was when Thranduil had to search out Legolas after the battle ended. His feelings were genuine, Bard could see that. The Man knew not what issues lay between the elfking and Ionien, but if Thranduil could bring her back, or keep her from fading completely, Bard would leave her in his care.

“What is it that lies between Ionien and you?”

“What?”

“It is evident that you’ve known her for some years. Why is that?”

If it was anyone else asking, Bard would say they sounded jealous. But Thranduil’s tone was not one of jealousy.  He sounded truly curious, and if he also sounded threatening, well, Bard could not say with certainty that it wasn’t simply a result of Thranduil being himself.

“Her daughter was my wife. She is grandmother to my children.”

It was a fact little known in Lake Town, and now Dale. Estswith had been born in Lake Town, but enough time had passed that when she returned to live there, any who would have known were dead and gone.  They’d all judged it best that her longevity, and Ionien’s heritage, remain secret.  The Master was a greedy creature who liked to collect the unusual.  If it was commonly known, he would have attempted to claim Estswith for himself, and he did not take refusals well.  So far as anyone living knew, Ionien was no relation to Bard and his children.  She was simply a mixed-blooded Ranger who’d made Lake Town a routine stop in her travels.

“She is grandmother to your children?”

The elfking looked most disgusted by that news, and Bard fought down the urge to challenge him. Thranduil had never before shown distaste for his children; it was doubtful that he would suddenly find them objectionable.  Ionien would react to such objection as a mother bear protecting her cubs.  If Thranduil knew her at all, he would know not to cross her on such a thing.

As Bard thought it out, he gained an idea of what Thranduil might object to. If he truly claimed Ionien as wife, then the elfking must recognize kinship with all of her descendants.  One of those descendants was married to a dwarf.  Thranduil was now related by marriage to Fili, of the line of Durin.  Bard could imagine few events that would leave a more bitter taste in the elfking’s mouth.  The Man found great hilarity in the entire situation.

“Congratulations, Thranduil. You are now a grandfather-by-marriage to the dwarf king.”

“Then you acknowledge Ionien as my wife?”

“It would be wise to wait until she wakes to settle the issue of your union. It is unlikely she will accept your claim.  But if you can prevent her from fading from this world, I will leave her in your care.”

“It is immaterial whether she accepts that she is my wife. Rejection will not affect the existence of our bond.”

“I would strongly advise that you not say such things to her. She’s likely to stick an arrow in your eye.”

Nothing annoyed Ionien so much as someone attempting to control her actions. She did not long tolerate those who did so.  Considering Thranduil’s overbearing nature, Bard wondered that they managed to get along well enough to engage in sexual congress.

A knock on the door interrupted the conversation, and the elf that Bard recognized as seneschal stepped inside. He was never entirely sure of that Andrathon.  That elf’s gaze could make one unsure whether they were coming or going.  There was always something slightly concerning about one who was so completely devoted to their lord.  Such blind loyalty could lead a person to ignore that which was right, if the object of their devotion chose to do wrong.

Bard hoped never to encounter another such person, and certainly not another elf. Elves, for Men, reflected the best of their natures; nearly a spark of the divine.  If an elf could succumb to such a deep flaw, what hope did mere mortals have?

Bard did not understand the brief conversation between king and seneschal. He had not learned to speak elvish so well as his children did, and they spoke too quickly.  It was nearly over before it began, and a scant minute after the seneschal entered the chamber he was gone, and Thranduil was looking to Bard.

“Your room is prepared. I presume you intend to stay the night.”

“I’m staying until Ionien wakes,” the human declared. If Thranduil thought he’d be gotten rid of so easily, the elfking would discover his mistake.  He would not leave this hall until he knew Ionien was safe.  He wanted to see this child of hers as well.

“I suppose that we should discuss this proposal of the dwarves, so long as you are here. I have many questions.  Perhaps you can answer some of them.”

 

 


	6. Waking

Time passed, and still Ionien slept.  When she reached for the peace of the next world, a blinding light flared into her inmost being and anchored her, refusing to let her pull away.  Events passed all around her, but she was unaware of them.  She wished for oblivion, and so she stayed inside herself. She could keep out the entire world, save for the light that h latched onto her, nudging her back into waking.  She ignored that light as best she was able.   Feredir and Mellessil were gone, so she wanted no part of the world.

The light was persistent; a flame that refused to be put out.  It pushed and pushed, in turns gently coaxing and demanding compliance.  Its presence was constant, threatening to never leave her alone.  The flame inside she sought to smother found comfort in that.

Another presence burrowed itself into her mind, urging her to return to the world of the living.  It was a solid presence, weightier and more familiar than the foreign flame.  It almost made her wish to respond. 

The world outside continued to turn as Ionien slept.  Business was conducted without her knowing, mere feet from the bed in which she laid.  The light exhausted itself in anchoring her, but it was relentless; finding ways to recharge itself even as it enveloped her.  Slowly but insistently, it tugged at her until finally, on the fifth day, she opened her eyes.

She was greeted by a curtain of white hair cascading down a blue brocaded tunic.  She was cradled to a man’s chest, close enough to feel a heartbeat.  She blinked slowly as she tried to work out precisely where she was.  That task was next to impossible considering she could see nothing beyond the body she was facing. Thranduil had found her, obviously, but was she at least in Dale, or was she trapped within his halls again?

His hand carded absently through her hair.  She found the rhythmic petting soothing.  She must be inside the elven halls.  He would not be so relaxed outside his domain, not even in the home of an ally.  All of her efforts—Feredir’s death—had all been for nothing.

A strangled cry escaped as the feeling of utter helplessness set in, and the petting immediately stopped.  In its place she was held tightly as the elvenking rolled onto his back until he was bearing most of her weight against him. Both arms slid around to secure her into place when she tried to push free. Damn him for his concern for her!

She wanted to attack him.  She wanted to strike him, and deal blow after blow until he was as battered and bloody as she felt inside.  She wanted to rage at the Valar; at the unfairness of all of it that left her trapped and alone while everything she loved was destroyed.  But it would do not good.

_“Please do not think that way, Ionien.  I cannot bear such pain from you.  All will be well, I swear it.”_

It wouldn’t be well.  Feredir was gone.  Mellessil was gone.  Nothing would ever be right again.  It seemed too much trouble to bother with saying so, but saying so was unnecessary.

_“No, meleth.  I swear to you that everything will be right again.  Our daughter is here; she is not dead.”_

She wasn’t—he knew?  How could he know?  No—oh no.  If he knew—if he even suspected—Ionien struggled to break free of him.  In response, his hold on her tightened.  She distantly heard him speaking to someone, but the words were unimportant.  If Mellessil was truly alive, getting to her and getting away was all that mattered.

_“You will not leave me again, Ionien.  You cannot run from what you are, it would serve you no good.”_

Why could she not shut out that voice?  Why did even the thought of doing so hurt so much?

“Thranduil, you’re hurting her.”

That was Bard’s voice, and warm human hands that gently detached her from the grip she found impossible to escape.  It was Bard pulling her into his arms and shushing her until she realized that the sobs piercing the air were her own.  Bard who soothed her through the panic settling in around her.

“Your daughter is alive, Ionien.  I've seen her with my own eyes.  And here she is now.”

She’d buried her face in Bard’s tunic, but turned at the sound of the door opening.  Bronwehel stepped in, holding Mellessil’s hand, and Ionien lunged for her daughter. Both men were wise enough to stay out of the way as she scooped the child up into her arms, sinking to her knees.

Bronwehel looked to Thranduil, and at his nod she joined them.  His hope was that Ionien might feel less threatened if she had allies around her. Bard could not stay forever, and she would need the assistance of those she was close to in order to settle in.  She already had a good relationship with Bronwehel.  They could aid each other.

The child was crying, clinging to her mother.  Though he refrained, Thranduil wished nothing more than to gather the both of them to him.  He was certain that Mellessil was his child.  Her light was too strong to belong to one more human than eldar. If this Feredir had truly been her father her light would be but a fraction of Ionien’s.  Instead it was stronger.  She could only be his daughter.

Bard watched the child as well, his gaze jumping from the girl to the elvenking.  It would seem that Thranduil was not the only one to see a resemblance.  No doubt many would see it before long, and speculate on it.  He would publicly claim her as soon as possible to put the questions to rest.

He hoped the human did not become a problem.  Bard was a useful ally, but if he did not support Thranduil’s claim, that alliance might come to an end.  The Man said he would leave Ionien in his care; he would have to trust the Man to keep his word.  To allow Ionien to leave him again would damn them both, and he would not see her in such torment.  How she’d endured these last years he did not know, but the pain of separation would be excruciating; doubly so to one already in grief.

It had been five days since he’d brought Ionien home.  She needed food.  It had also been hours since the human had eaten.  A quiet word sent Bronwehel to the kitchens.

If only he could send Bard and the child away so easily.  He and Ionien must speak, and it would be better to settle everything without an audience.  He did not wish for witnesses as she continued to attempt to deny him.  It would serve their daughter no good to witness her parents fighting.

Did Mellessil know that she was not the child of Feredir?  Had Ionien ever confessed the truth, or had she maintained a lie?  Would she admit the truth now that the human was dead?  The announcement of their marriage, and their child, was but one of the many issues that they must settle.

Thranduil could feel Ionien’s emotions as she held their daughter. She was still determined to leave him. If he was a crueler man he would let her go, just so that she could feel the pain that would come with separation.  She was also determined to see him as some sort of monster.  If Bard was to be believed, she did not know she’d committed herself to him.  Perhaps she believed he’d forced their bond?  If she was so unfamiliar with the ways of elves, she might not know that such was impossible.

Kneeling on the floor for so long could not be comfortable for her.  She was still weak; she should not push herself further.  In a day or two she should be perfectly well, but until then she must take care. If she would not do so, then he must do it for her.

With that thought in mind, he slid from the bed and took a knee beside her. She flinched at his touch, and half turned as though she would hide their daughter from him.  He did not let that stop him from taking hold of both of them and pulling them up until they reached the bed.  He released them immediately, but did not move away.

“Food is coming.  I’m sure you must be hungry.”

The failure to respond came as no surprise.  He was careful to conceal his irritation when he saw Bard watching him, but it was growing difficult.   Did Ionien truly think that she could simply ignore the situation by ignoring him? She was no fool; she must know that was impossible. His frustration was not aided by the human’s apparent amusement.

Finally, the child’s cries ceased, and the even rise and fall of her shoulders indicated that she’d fallen asleep.  Ionien looked as though she could do with more sleep herself, but Thranduil would not push her.  Once she took a meal, if she wished to be stubborn he would simply out-wait her. It was doubtful that she would stay awake long, and he could put her back to bed.  He looked forward to her full recovery, when she would be a match for him. He missed her spirit.

“Bard, when can we leave?”

“Leave?”

_“You WILL NOT leave me, Ionien.  I will not allow you to harm yourself in such a way.”_

The hate-filled glare she leveled at him was truly spectacular, and Thranduil almost visibly recoiled.  He could practically see the gears in her mind turning, and she was preparing for a fight.  This was precisely what he’d hope to avoid Bard, or any other, seeing.

“Ionien, I don’t think that leaving is an option now, and you know it.”

“I know that this pompous king has no claim on me, and I will not stay in this place!”

“I have the only claim,” Thranduil interjected calmly, although internally he was seething.  “And you will stay here.  You will not take my daughter from me.”

She could not leave.  He’d nearly gone mad the first time.  And to lose a child, one he’d only just learned he had?  He wouldn’t survive it. 

“That is not your decision to make!” she hissed at him.

“In point of fact, it is.  You are my wife, and your welfare is my responsibility.  I cannot allow you to bring such harm to yourself by leaving. More to the point, that child is an heir of mine, and her safety is at risk outside these halls.”

The tone was gentle, laced with concern, but the words were nothing short of threatening to her ears. He was laying claim to her, and her child, and Bard was saying nothing to counter it, which could only mean that he’d managed to convince the human it was true.  Thranduil had managed to turn her only ally in this place against her.

“I am not your wife!  You cannot make it so simply because you declare it!”

“Unless you wish to wake that child, might I suggest that you remove yourselves from her side, and lower your voices,” Bard injected before Thranduil could answer that absurdity.  He thought it a rather sad state of affairs when the human was the voice of reason, but Bard was right.  Neither he nor Ionien were regulating their tone, and this would be the worst possible time for Mellessil to wake.  

Ionien attempted to pull free of his grip on her arm, but he guided her to the table and into a chair.  With or without an audience, they must discuss their situation as adults, not fight like elflings. It was becoming plain that Bard was correct, and she did not understand the consequences of their night together.  He must help her to understand, and accept, because it could not be undone.

“I do not simply declare it so, Ionien.  Our feär were joined the night you gave yourself to me. It is that which binds us together, not my insistence.”

“That cannot be true! You would say anything to obtain what you want!”

“If I wished to be cruel I would let you leave, and feel the truth for yourself.”

Ionien could not bear the look of pity the elfking gave her as he spoke.  Nor Bard’s expression, which virtually mirrored Thranduil’s.  It was simply not possible that Thranduil spoke the truth.

“How can you be sure, Ionien?” Bard asked gently.  “You’ve spent little time among elves. How can you be so certain that Thranduil’s words are not the truth?”

“Because I am the evidence of the lie.  I’ve had three husbands in my life.  I’ve made vows to them and honored them, I have loved them all, but I’ve never formed such a bond with any of them.  My father is eldar, and yet I’ve never met him.  He clearly formed no bond with my mother in the making of me.”

It was more difficult than she expected to ignore the look of rage on Thranduil’s face at the mention of her husbands. It felt utterly wrong to have caused such pain to the ellon, until she decided he had no right to such anger.  She was nearly twelve hundred years old.  Did he truly expect that she would have been celibate her entire life until she met him?

“Those were unions with mortals.  We are immortal; our feä will not bind to mortals.”

“Even if that was true, you already had a bond with your wife!  You could not marry me!”

“Baralindes dissolved our union when she chose not to wait in the West.  She abandoned us, choosing to become spirit rather than join those waiting in the Halls of Mandos.  I was as free as I believed you to be.”

The arrival of food interrupted what was sure to become an even more heated argument.  Ionien paid no attention to what Thranduil, as the one closest to her, was placing on her plate.  She ate mechanically, with no notice for what she was eating.  This was what utter defeat felt like, wasn’t it? Everything she’d done, she’d done to avoid becoming Thranduil’s pawn, and in the end that was exactly where she landed.  The fact that he saw everyone, including himself, as a pawn, did nothing to alleviate the feeling.

It was her fault Feredir was dead. She’d given in to weakness, and he paid the price for it. She’d known better than to allow Thranduil so close, and she’d still done it.  She’d believed it safe; he had a wife waiting for him across the seas, surely he would not do anything to betray that.  How wrong she’d been. Too much time together, and they’d both fallen prey to the pull she’d felt she could ignore. She’d not only betrayed a good man, she’d caused his death, all because she didn’t control herself.  All of this was her fault. She’d failed.

_“No, Ionien. You must not think so. You’ve not failed anything; this is simply what we are.”_

He could not be right, surely. How could it be right to absolve oneself of responsibility for one’s choices?  And it was a choice; she could not say that he’d forced her any more than she could say it had simply happened. Feeling something didn’t mean that it must be acted on.  Action was a decision.  She’d wanted him, and she’d chosen to give into that wanting, once. He’d asked, though not in words, and she’d acquiesced. How could once destroy so much?

_“Please, meleth. Please, you must not think so. I regret that you lost one dear to you, but nothing is destroyed.  It is in our nature to form bonds with others of our kind—“_

She quickly shut him out of her mind, mentally slamming a door closed.  It wouldn’t keep him out forever, but she simply could not take any more of his pleading in her head. He didn’t understand, or he didn’t want to understand.  She could not absolve herself of responsibility, simply because of her blood. That was an excuse, and it was one she could not accept.

 It was as she reached for her glass of water that she noticed the sleeve trailing across the small table.  She was wearing one of Thranduil’s robes over a clean linen shift. She was wearing his robe, and it was comforting; the weight of it, and Thranduil’s scent surrounding her made her traitorous body relax into the feeling of safety. Her hands were clean of dirt that had practically painted her skin during her flight and the search for Mellessil. Someone had bathed her, and changed her, and she could take a guess as to who it was.  Damn him.

“I do not want this.”

“It cannot be undone. “

Thranduil almost-- _almost_ —wished that it could be, for her sake.  He would never be willing to let her leave, but he almost wished it was possible.  The hopelessness in her eyes sent a knife directly to his heart, and he would give whatever was needed to take that look away. But he would not give her false hope.  That would only be more harmful, over time.  There was no dissolving a bond, not so long as both parties were living, either in Middle Earth or in Valinor. Only if one chose to abandon the Halls of Waiting was a union dissolved, and the abandoned spouse free to find another. It was for that very reason that they were not entered into lightly.

When it became obvious that she would eat no more, Bronwehel removed the half-empty plate, and Ionien returned to the bed to curl up around her daughter.  Thranduil watched with mild concern, but Bard looked truly worried. 

“She is still in need of rest,” the elfking informed the human as they retreated to the door, “It would be best to allow her to sleep.”

“Are you telling the truth, when you say this bond cannot be dissolved?”

“Have you ever known me to lie?” he asked harshly.  He could stand being accused of many things, but he would not have his honor questioned.

“To lie outright?  No.  But there is a difference between cannot and will not, and I have seen you use miniscule differences in wording to your advantage.”

Thranduil could not prevent a smirk at that. Bard had learned much in their years of good relations.  People must learn to be clear if they wished negotiations with elves to move in their favor. 

“So you have paid attention in our negotiations with the dwarves.  I’d wondered.”

He counted it a minor victory when Bard turned to face him, rather than stare at Ionien.   Petty it might seem to the human, but his bonded was too newly returned to him for him to be comfortable with another man so close to her, even one who was family. The huff that might have been a laugh was also a tiny victory.

“But in this, there is no mistaking.  ‘Cannot’ is the correct word.  Dissolving our bond is not within anyone’s ability.”

“And simply living apart?”

From the hitched breath that came from the bed, Thranduil knew that Ionien was listening, though her appearance suggested she was ignoring them.  He chose not to draw Bard’s attention to that fact. If Bard knew that Ionien was aware, he would not willingly leave the room, and Thranduil was serious about allowing her to return to rest.

“Would cause a pain that I wouldn’t wish even on the Ironfoot.  I would keep her from that.”

He led Bard from the room, his first venture out since returning from the woods.  He wished to stay, but his wife’s rest would be easier without him, for now.  The human glanced at Tauriel posted outside the door, but did not comment on her presence.

“It isn’t right, that she should be forced into this.”

At that Thranduil did pause, and his chest constricted.  It was an effort to keep his tone even, when he wished for a few colorful curses at the veiled accusation.

“I did not force her into my bed, Bard.  We wed with her full participation.”

“I don’t question her participation, Thranduil.  But I think we can all acknowledge that her participation did not include her understanding of the action.  I don’t doubt that she wanted you if she bedded you, but wanting for a night doesn’t mean willingness for a lifetime, especially an elvish lifetime.”

Thranduil was unfortunately forced to concede that point.  His conscience could rest clear that he’d acted in good faith, and that Ionien had wanted him as he wanted her, but she was clearly unwilling to commit to the permanent union that resulted.  Since there was nothing to be done about it, that was a problem that he hoped would be solved with time, and without one of them trying to kill the other.

 “It is unfortunate that she was ignorant of our ways.  I would not make a prisoner of her, but she must remain here.”

“She is not full elf, Thranduil. Your ways are not her ways.”

“If her father was an elf, she is more eldar than anything else. Perhaps, if she’d been more concerned with her origins, such a misunderstanding might not have occurred.”

It was rather obvious that the human wished to say something in reply, but Bard kept his own counsel.  Perhaps he was simply tired of discussion, but whatever the reason, Thranduil was content in the silence. He did not relish an argument that any of his people would hear, before any formal declaration was made. He was fully aware that there was blame to share for their predicament, but such conversation was best had in private, with his wife.

His robes trailed behind him as he walked on, Bard hastily catching up with his pace. He walked with purpose, now that he’d chosen to set foot outside his chamber.  He knew precisely what to do with the yellow silk he’d acquired only a week ago.  His wife needed clothes, and he would prefer never to see her in those ranger’s garments again.  The seamstresses could easily create suitable clothes that she would find comfortable.

Bard found his guide taking him down hallways that were much more familiar than the one he’d occupied the last days.  He recognized the hall of the artisans, a place he’d been required to visit on his first memorable visit to Mirkwood, to visit his daughters and those people who’d been unable to survive the first harsh winter in Dale.  Sigrid especially had been fascinated with elven weaving, and the fine fabrics they were able to construct, and Bard had spent a considerable portion of his visit retrieving her from these rooms, where some of the finest materials available simply hung from the walls. Thranduil’s parting gift to her of bolts of elven silk and brocade had forever cemented her good opinion of the elvenking.

The elves that Thranduil interrupted at work appeared surprised to see their king, even more so when he started to sort through bolts of material that were clearly feminine in design. Perhaps Thranduil left his sartorial choices to his steward.  The seamstresses certainly behaved as though the king’s presence was a novelty. Bard had wondered before whether elves were as prone to rumor and gossip as his own people, and he hid a smile as his suspicions were confirmed.  He had no doubt that as soon as they left the workroom, the artisans would be buzzing.

He recognized the bolt of yellow silk Thranduil lightly fingered as the one he’d sent off with the merchants.  It would suit Ionien beautifully, if she could be persuaded to wear it. He was rather surprised that Thranduil purchased it.  He’d sent it off with the merchants to rid himself of it before Tilda set it on fire in answer to Alfrid’s proposal.   Where Alfrid had come by the articles he didn’t know, nor did he care; his only concern had been whether that elvish circlet had been legitimately purchased or stolen.  He wouldn’t put a theft past the men that Alfrid commanded. Those who flocked to Lake Town on the promise of gold had come from the dregs of society, and Dale had been dealing with the risen crime rate from the influx for the last ten years.  He almost regretted not allowing Tilda to answer the man’s proposal in person, and incite the decent people of Lake Town to revolt.

Several of the females were eyeing him speculatively, as well as their king, and Bard inwardly groaned.  In the last two years especially there had been a push by his people to remarry, and offers had come in from all over Middle Earth.  Nobles from Gondor, the royal court at Rohan, not to mention the women who had made Dale their home or passed through on route to elsewhere.  Would he now have to concern himself with elvish attention as well?

After only a few minutes Thranduil issued orders that Bard couldn’t understand before turning on his heel and leaving without so much as a word of farewell.  The human gave a brief nod of acknowledgment before following the elvenking, relieved to be away from the interested gazes of women.  There’d been enough scheming by his own people to put him off forever the idea of taking another wife.  If elven women began their own plotting, he would hand the crown over to Bain and retreat to a mountain in the North far away from any other people.

“You distract my workers, Bard. “

“It is not intentional, I assure you.”

“Still, I would not be surprised should more than one elleth follow you back to Dale.  There are those who would be willing to marry a mortal if it meant they would become a queen.  And still others who would do so simply for the novelty of witnessing a mortal lifespan.”

He found the idea of being an amusement stung. Nor did have any interest in an immortal wife. But something more important occurred to him.

“Would such a thing be possible?  You said yourself that your—something—didn’t bind to mortals.”

“Our feä-our spirit- does not bind with mortals. But contracts and vows between mortal and eldar are still possible.  How do you think half-elves were ever created otherwise?”

“And such unions are accepted among your people?”

“As much as anything temporary can be. One who entered into such an arrangement would do so knowing that their chosen partner would never join them in the Undying Lands, nor would their offspring.  There are few who would make such a choice, but on occasion it does happen.”

Andrathon interrupted their walk through the halls, holding out a sealed letter to Bard.  He took it curiously, wondering what the missive could be.  He’d left Tilda and Bain in charge of the affairs of Dale, sure that they could take care of the city for a few days.  He’d been gone longer than expected, but still, the city should still be standing.

The curiosity turned to concern when he turned the letter over and saw the seal was Sigrid’s.  If Sigrid was sending him word, here, then it must be important.  Anything as simple as family news would have been left at home to await his return.  Worried that something had happened to his daughter, he broke the seal and unfolded the paper.  He scanned quickly through its contents, and then slowed to re-read, his anger growing. 

“What is wrong?”

“I must return to Dale.”

“Something has happened.” 

“Alfrid had the nerve to send a messenger to demand either my daughter’s hand, or gold.  Since I wasn’t there, the bastard decided to try to force Tilda to leave with him. Bain and Fili had to run him off.”

“Was the child injured?”

“Sigrid didn’t say so.  But Alfrid will be if he keeps this up.”

“Send a raven if you need assistance, and Lake Town will be dealt with.”

Bard acknowledged the offer with a nod, and they detoured back to his guest room.  Within an hour, he and his guard were off, Thranduil at the stables to make his farewells. The elvenking had no doubt that he would be seeing more of the human, and his entire family, in his halls. 

He returned to the hall to find Andrathon waiting for him with a stack of documents.  Of course, today was the day that those humans who lived nearest the wood, and those few elves who chose to settle in the woods rather than in the halls, could come with complaints, if they had a grievance to air to the king.  Judging from the size of the stack, today’s audience had been particularly long.  His trust in Andrathon’s handling of the complaints was complete, but he still required to be informed of them, and how they were addressed, so that he would not encounter later surprises. There was much to review.

When he finally reached his chambers, he returned to find that Bronwehel had brought Lostion to keep the child company, and that all had ventured out into the inner courtyard. Tauriel had even joined them, speaking softly to Bronwehel.  The two children played in what used to be Baralindes’ garden, talking in tones he couldn’t quite hear.

Ionien was much improved from her rest, and the presence of her daughter. She no longer looked as though she would fall dead at any moment. He expected that by next day’s dawning she would be at her full strength.  He would rejoice to see that.  He was less than pleased to see that she tensed at his approach. She did not acknowledge him when he sat beside her.

He acknowledged his own fault in the situation.  Ionien blamed herself, but this was as much his doing as hers.  They’d spent hours upon hours in conversation over those winter months, but they’d both shied away from anything too personal.  He’d never spoken of Baralindes, and Ionien had never pried, so it was likely that she hadn’t known that he was free.  And he—he had, apparently incorrectly, assumed that if she’d had someone waiting for her she would have left with Elrond’s sons after finishing her business in Dale.  They’d both failed at the most important communications, and now they must deal with the consequences of that failure.

“Where is Bard?”

“He was obligated to return to Dale, on urgent business.”

“And he left me here?”  The _with you?_  was unspoken, but may as well have been shouted from the throne room.

“I feel certain you will see him again, soon.”

He nodded at the two elleths, and they collected the children, leaving the pair alone.  Now that they had privacy, Thranduil was uncertain how best to begin. They needed to achieve a peace and the sooner the better.

“How do you feel?”

“How did you feel when your wife died?” she shot back at him. He nearly sighed.

“None of this was done to harm you, Ionien.   To cement you into something you were unaware of was never my intention.”

“I do know that. But I cannot accept this.”

“And yet you must, for there is no other alternative. You are my wife.  I am your husband.”

“Feredir was my husband!”

“Indeed, he was.”

He wondered if she could know just how much that admission cost him. It would do no good to object to her assertion, not when he was attempting to prevent an argument.  He reached for her hair as he spoke, catching a lock between his fingers.  It was now smooth as silk from being tended while she slept.  He fingered it idly as he considered his next words.

“But he is gone, now.  And you are still here.  Our daughter is still here.  You cannot give your life to grief when you are so terribly needed.”

When she said nothing, he pulled her to him, tucking her into his side.  She stayed tense, but did not try to pull away.  He chose to say nothing more, but simply allow his presence to soothe her.  It was unavoidable fact that close proximity would finish healing the damaged bond he’d spent days repairing as he anchored her light.  No matter what sort of fight Ionien might put up, she would not be able to continue to deny her blood.  His only concern on that was how best to aid her in making peace with herself.

Ionien could not deny that being held by the elvenking was soothing.  Even as she fought to dispel that feeling, it enveloped her like a warm blanket.  It wasn’t right, but she was too weak at this moment to pull free.  The longer he held her, the less she wanted to pull free, which was doubtless his intent all along. He was cunning, Thranduil.  No doubt he expected that eventually she would simply give in to this wish of allowing him to care for her, and accept her fate as his wife.   He would learn how wrong he was.  She could do nothing now, not when he didn’t leave her side, but she would find a way to get free of him. 


	7. Denial

A day was all it took for Ionien to regain her full strength (curse Thranduil for being right), but it took several more before she would venture out of the Elfking’s chamber.  Part of it was due to the clothes delivered to the door: by the morning the first of many dresses made its appearance, but her own clothes were nowhere to be found.  According to Thranduil there had been a misunderstanding when he’d sent them for cleaning, and they’d been destroyed.  She didn’t believe him, but had no proof to call him liar. 

The dresses he’d gifted her with to “make amends” for the sad fate of her own clothing remained untouched.  She’d not worn a dress in years, not since Estswith’s wedding.  And she’d never, in her long years, touched a garment so fine as those Thranduil presented. The yellow silk was decorated with seed crystals that shimmered in the firelight.  The sleeves trailed almost to the floor, the scalloped edges embroidered in delicate threads. The blue velvet was nearly identical in color to the gem Thranduil had gifted her, which he’d returned as soon as she was whole.  The pearls that decorated the scooped neckline were arranged in the same design as the necklace.  The rose colored gown was nearly sheer, shot through with darker threads that matched the underdress, a brilliant ruby set in the center.  There followed more gowns than one woman would ever need, covered with a queen’s ransom in jewels, and they were all stunning.

But they were completely impractical.  She would never be able to maneuver in those draping sleeves and hems that brushed the floor.  If there was ever any sort of threat, she would be helpless. Even the simple shift she lived in was more practical than a single one of those dresses.  Thranduil’s response to that complaint—that she was safe inside his halls, and did she really think that he would allow any harm to come to her, or their daughter—had nearly lead to a physical fight.  He only barely managed to move his weapons out of her reach.  She was no child in need of protection!  She was more than capable of protecting herself!

The other reason she stayed in seclusion was the she simply did not wish to see anyone.  Bronwehel visited daily, which allowed her reassurance that the elleth was fully recovered, and Edraithon had come once to pronounce her well, along with heavy-handed allusion to work in the healing wards that might appeal to her.  She wanted no other visitors, not even Tauriel.  If the captain, or even the pale bastard who’d questioned them, had simply released them as they should, none of this would have happened. 

Instead of seeking out company, she spent her days in the inner courtyard.  It was private to the king, which meant she wasn’t disturbed by outsiders.  With its glass ceiling allowing the sun and natural light to filter through, and the plants flourishing around her, it was the one place where she nearly felt like she was outside, rather than underground.  Here, at least, she didn’t feel as if she was suffocating. 

Mellessil was her constant companion, when she wasn’t off with Lostion, and Thranduil was always nearby.  His presence was always on the periphery, staying in the same location, but conducting the business of the kingdom and leaving her to her own devices. He seemed to have resolved to grant her some distance, at least during the day.   When sleep was needed he insisted they share his bed rather than allowing her a room of her own, but he never once attempted to initiate anything intimate.  He was content to simply hold her to him and allow their closeness to work on her reluctance.

It was a strategy that was in great danger of working.  She could not pretend that she didn’t feel the bond that Thranduil spoke of; she’d felt it even before she’d betrayed her husband with him.  She wanted to be near him; his presence was soothing to her fraying nerves.  If she didn’t escape him, soon, he would win. 

What finally sent her from Thranduil’s chamber was the earnest pleading of her daughter to see more of the halls.  She couldn’t keep the child cooped up in a room and a courtyard until she worked out an escape.  The Valar alone knew how long such a thing would take. And she wouldn’t leave Thranduil to cart the child around on his own. He already laid claim to Mellessil as his daughter; she would not hide away and allow him to declare it publicly.

The first order of business was a bath.  She’d not had one, unwilling to bare herself before the elvenking, since she was unconscious and under the will of another.  Much as she was used to endless spans of time travelling and living in the same clothes daily, she preferred to be clean whenever possible. Thranduil’s eagerness to accommodate her wishes was tempered by her flat refusal to allow his assistance, but he did not rise to the bait of argument.  Instead he escorted her down the hall to a private bathing chamber. She’d not even known of the existence of such a place.  In her previous tenure, she’d held the royal wing out-of-bounds.  Her time with Thranduil was spent in his study, or other public areas.  She’d only spent the one night in his room.

The water rising from the inset bath was hot enough that steam filled the room.  Tiles reflected the light of the lamps that lined the walls.  The bath was a work of art that Ionien was very nearly ready to worship.  A tray covered with scented soaps rested along the edge, along with a bowl of milk powder.  Of course, the elvenking would want his luxuries.  A bench only a few feet from the bath held large sheets for drying.

As soon as Thranduil left she dropped his robe to the floor and slipped out of the shift that grew dirtier by the day before stepping down into the decadent heat.  The water rose nearly to her chest as she walked the bath before finally sinking down onto the built in bench.  It was long enough that she could lie across it and completely submerge herself, allowing the warmth to flow over her.  She would sorely miss this once she was gone.

Purposeful steps alerted her that she was no longer alone in her soaking, and she hurriedly sank beneath the water so that she was less exposed.  The milk powder clouded the water enough to make it opaque; a small favor.  If it was Thranduil returned she would claw his eyes out for spying on her.   Instead she turned to find Tauriel holding a bundle she recognized as the blue velvet.  Fires, but she’d forgotten bathing would necessitate bending on the issue of clothes.  She could hardly walk the halls naked, even if the elves had no real sense of modesty.

“The king thought you would wish more than a sheet when you emerge from this chamber.”

She nodded, both in acknowledgment and dismissal. She was perfectly able to bathe herself without an attendant.  Tauriel, however, did not leave her to her own devices. Instead she knelt by the bath, rolling back her sleeves before reaching for a bottle of scented soft soap.   Without another word she lathered her hands and began working the soap through Ionien’s hair.  Ionien froze for a moment, stilling at the touch of another before she finally set to the task of washing herself. Feredir used to perform the task Tauriel assumed, when the opportunity presented itself.

Simply thinking her husband’s name could nearly reduce her to tears.  How could she be what Thranduil claimed when her heart was too full of her husband?  How could there be room for another in her heart when she mourned Feredir so fully?  How could she yearn for Thranduil’s presence at her side when it was his demanding nature that left her husband dead?  How could she allow herself to forget for even a moment that the elvenking was her enemy? Those questions ate at her whenever she grew too comfortable, or considered her fate if Thranduil won.

Suddenly touring the halls with Thranduil lost all appeal.  Let him cart Mellessil around on his own if he wished.  She would be much better off spending that time working on an escape plan.

“Ionien?” Tauriel picked up on her change in mood with no small amount of concern.

“I’m ready to get out.”

“Perhaps you should rinse your hair first.”

She ducked under the water, scrubbing her fingers through her hair to rid it of any soap.  When she emerged, Tauriel was holding out a bathing sheet to her and she wrapped herself into its softness.  Tauriel grabbed a towel and began the process of wringing the water from her hair.

Ionien was glad that she never allowed her hair to grow as long as elves’; she had no desire to sit for an hour simply to dry and comb her hair.  As a Ranger she rarely had time for such frivolity.  Most times baths were affairs of plunging into a river or lake fully clothed, and scrubbing oneself with whatever might be found. Only in the larger cities where they stopped were they fortunate to find actual baths and hot water.

Tauriel combed through her hair, removing the last of the loose water.  Once the elleth was satisfied, she picked up the dress and dropped it over Ionien’s head.  There was a brief struggle to breathe until the peredhel fought her way through the lining that threatened to choke and found the opening.  Standing, she smoothed the fabric down her curves while Tauriel managed the tiny hooks.  As she’d expected, the fit was perfect.

Her hair was left to hang loosely down to her shoulders. It was smoother than Ionien could ever remember it being.  Her skin felt softer than it ever had before.  She drew the line at the half-circlet that Tauriel wanted to place on her head.  She’d never felt less like a Ranger; she wasn’t going to compound that by adding a crown.  The Silvan elf finally gave up with an audible sigh. Slippers followed, and Ionien grit her teeth at the sight, but at least they were hard-soled, like her boots.  So long as they stayed on her feet, she would be able to walk.

“You are as lovely as the jewel he gave you.”

It was a kind sentiment, but not one that she wanted to hear.  It wasn’t difficult to guess that Thranduil intended to parade her around for all to see.

“Ionien, the king truly cares for you.  He would give you all of Middle Earth if you asked for it.”

No doubt many women would find such an idea appealing.  But Ionien had been raised with few personal possessions, and no desire to acquire more.  The idea of a king willing to lavish every available luxury on her was incomprehensible.  She wanted only her freedom, which seemed to be the one thing the elvenking was determined to deny her.  She could not be a surrogate for all that the great elf had lost.

When Tauriel received no response, she urged the other woman out of the chamber rather than continue. “The king is waiting for you.”

“Is he afraid I might run away?”

“Perhaps he simply wished to spend time with you.”

Tauriel’s threat/promise that Thranduil waited proved to be true.  He stood only feet from the door, demonstrating for Mellessil the finer points of holding a dagger.  She wanted to take him to task for showing the child such a thing, but could not.  Feredir had done the same ever since Mellessil was old enough to understand, so that she might know of the harm that could come from being careless and how to avoid it. Weapons were simply a fact of the child’s life, and it was far better for her to understand safety and risk than to pretend she couldn’t be harmed by them.

Ionien could see that the blade of the weapon was the same shining elf-steel as Thranduil’s swords, and just as sharp. She knew from recent experience how deadly that blade was; it was the same one she’d stolen from him when she escaped.  The elfking kept a close hold over the child’s on the handle, and kept her free hand carefully away from the blade.  Ionien might panic at seeing the pair of them so close together, but she knew that her daughter was in no danger.

The child herself was absorbed in the lesson she received, along with the one giving it, until some small sound made her look up.  It was selfishly gratifying to see that the elvenking was immediately forgotten by the child as soon as she saw her mother.  At least it was gratifying until Mellessil stopped her happy approach to stare, wary.

“Mama?”

“Of course it’s mama.”

Still the child hung back, looking uncertain. Ionien took a cautious step forward, stopping when Mellessil took a step back towards Thranduil.

“You don’t look like mama.”

Was it possible for five words to inflict such damage?  Her own child didn’t recognize her.  She should have found a way to burn the dress, not put it on.  Surely someone could have produced something more along the lines of what Tauriel and the other elleths in the Guard wore, instead of gowns that threatened to trip her.

“It is your mother penneth.  I promise you. Go to her and see.”

Small feet took hesitant steps forward, and Ionien stood still. This corridor was perhaps not the best place for—it was darker in the hall than the elfking’s room.  Finally Mellessil stopped in front of her, and made a big production of looking her over critically.

“You look like an elf princess,” she finally passed her judgment.

“Well, so do you.”

The dress Mellessil wore was nearly as fine as the ones delivered to her mother. Thranduil had wasted no time in taking a child who’d only ever had two dresses in her short lifetime and turning her out like the princess she was. Fires, but if Thranduil claimed Mellessil as his own she truly would be a princess.  That would make her an even greater target for those that still hunted them.

_“What troubles you, meleth?”_

She shook her head minutely, refusing to answer.  She couldn’t—couldn’t tell him the truth.  If he knew, he’d likely take a sword to her himself.  She couldn’t put her child at such risk.

_“The destruction of your clothes truly was an accident, Ionien. She will grow used to seeing you in elven threads, but if it sets your mind at ease I have ordered something you should find more comfortable.”_

Let him think her concern was Mellessil’s reactions, if it pleased him. Those thoughts would keep him from delving too deeply into other possibilities.  If the elfking got it into his head that she was keeping something, he would not rest until he knew what it was.  Let him have something else to worry over.

_“You look exquisite, meleth.  You should never be ashamed of the power that gives you.”_

He sounded as though he spoke from experience, and she acknowledged that he probably did.  Appearance could lend a great deal of weight to one’s actions, especially as a ruler.  Still, if she was to be defined by her appearance, she would prefer to look like a Ranger, or a healer, not an elven doll. She was no elf queen.

Thranduil led them away from the royal wing, and Ionien was able to take her first proper look at the halls.  She’d been in too much of a hurry when she escaped to pause and look at the architecture.  Having spent most of her time with elves in Imladris, Mirkwood was something of a surprise, even after previous residence.  She could easily handle the open spaces of the Lord Elrond’s city, but the caverns of the Silvan elves were too confining.  She could see that effort had been made to open many of the spaces up, and she admired the ingenuity, but she could not be easy trapped underground as she was.  How did one breathe down here?

_“You must calm yourself, meleth.  These walls have stood for thousands of years.  There is no danger in being underground.”_

Mellessil did not share her mother’s discomfort with the halls, a fact that Ionien was only mildly grateful for.  The child looked at everything around her with undisguised wonder.  That was understandable, as it was the first time she’d ever seen anything like it, but Ionien found it hard to conceal her displeasure that her daughter had practically attached herself to Thranduil’s arm.  It would make leaving more difficult, and she must leave.

Elves stared curiously at them as they passed.  Ionien recognized several of them, and from the glares she received from a number of elleths, they recognized her.  One in particular, a woman with hair the color of summer wheat, looked at her as though she was a bug to be squashed. It wasn’t jealousy that marred that lovely face, it was pure hatred. Ionien did not recognize the face from her previous visit; this one was unknown to her. What wrong could she have done the elleth to be so despised?  If it was Thranduil the woman was after, she was welcome to him. 

“Pay no heed to her, meleth.”

The elvenking’s tone was dismissive of the several women who watched them.  Ionien wished she could dismiss them so easily, but she could not.  Perhaps her opinion was biased by so much time spent with humans, but she knew full well just how much damage a woman bent on revenge could do.

“Who is she?”

“Thranduil.”

That sound, clear as a bell, came from the woman staring at them.  Ionien wondered that the woman addressed her king so familiarly. The tone bordered on disrespectful, something Ionien wouldn’t have expected any elf under his rule to dare. 

“Annúngileth.”

His own tone was cold enough to freeze water.  Even Mellessil noticed, and looked at the adults curiously, inching ever closer to her mother.  Ionien watched warily as this Annúngileth left the cluster of females and approached them. The elleth’s stare made her itch for a weapon at hand as she was looked up and down. She had never been one to concern herself with outward appearance, but to be inspected and dismissed as though she was found wanting—she didn’t like the feeling, or the woman who caused it.

“You bring a foreign woman into our midst?”

“My decisions are my own Annúngileth.  They do not concern you.”

“If you intend to make this peredhel your queen, it concerns us all. Your responsibilities are to your people.”

The other elves watched without even attempting to conceal their interest, or their jealousy. In fact, they were gaining a larger audience as elves who would have passed through the hall paused in their errands to watch.   Some of them looked to Ionien as though waiting to see what she would do.  She tried to ignore the stares, keeping her attention on her daughter and on Thranduil.  She cared not what this elleth said about her, but was the elvenking truly going to say nothing to the accusation that he was abandoning his responsibilities? That was not the Thranduil she knew.

“I will not tolerate your causing trouble, Annúngileth.  If you are so dissatisfied with your life here, you are free to return to your home at any time.”

The elleth paled, shock marring her lovely features.  That shock turned to white-hot rage.

“You would dare—“

“I dare anything I please in MY kingdom, and you are warned. If I find you disregarding my instruction, I will put you from these halls, and you can make your way through the forest on your own.”

Without another word he dismissed Annúngileth from his concern and directed Ionien and Mellessil away.  It was unfortunate that they encountered the bitter elleth and her followers on their first venture out.  She could be vicious, and she continued to labor under the expectation that her words carried weight with him.

He meant his threat.  He was never so easily led as she thought, and if she continued to disturb the peace in his home he would have her ejected from it.  He should have sent her home millennia ago when Baralindes died.  She was a continual thorn in his side; forever attempting to rule his actions and decisions. Since not even his wife had managed that, Annúngileth certainly wouldn’t accomplish it.  She sought to claim a power that had never been hers, and he was weary of it.

“Who is she?”

Ionien was asking a second time, and he glanced from her to the child.  The presence of his daughter tempered the answer he wanted to give.  Ionien might be used to his rage, but he did not wish to frighten his child, and he knew he was close to exploding.  Ionien seemed to know it as well, for she laid a hand on his arm as though attempting to soothe. The moment she realized what she’d done, she jerked her hand away, almost stumbling in her haste to release him.

“Annúngileth was sister to my wife.”

He did not wish to speak further on the subject.  He had a goal for this excursion that he intended to see fulfilled.  He wanted as many of his people to see them as possible.  Ionien’s presence at his side would be enough to set the gossips to work, without a need for any formal declaration. Those who watched could easily see how close to the king’s side the strangers stayed, and the finery they wore, and the conclusions reached would do more to further the speculation than an actual announcement. By days’ end word would be out throughout the halls, and it would be more than just rumor.  An announcement could wait until Ionien was comfortably settled into their bond, something that he anticipated happening in the near future.  A few more nights together should assist with that. Physical proximity was doing more to protect and strengthen their bond than all the arguing in the world could accomplish. Her presence in his room brought a peace that he hadn’t felt in ten years, and he could feel her resistance dissolving. 

He longed for her to release the guilt she held onto so tightly and accept their marriage. He regretted the loss of life that tormented his wife, but he could not regret their union, and his wish was that she would come to see it was for the best.  Nothing she could have done would change the truth that she was always destined to outlive the mortal.  She should not eternally punish herself for being what she was and following her nature. Feredir, if he had ever loved her, would not wish for her to torture herself with recriminations. 

Thranduil wondered, not for the first time, how Ionien could be eldar and yet know so little of their ways.  What could drive a mother to raise her child among humans when she was so obviously inhuman? The wise thing to do would have been to raiser her among the elves, an option that would have been available as the child was peredhel. Whatever the reason for the father’s absence from their lives, no elven family would have turned away one of their blood. 

Raising a peredhel among humans was a mistake. Most humans eyed elves with either awe or mistrust. There was rarely a middle ground, where they were simply seen as another of Eru’s children.  Bard and his children were one such exception. Most humans could not accept it. What sort of life had Ionien endured as a child, living with people who always saw her as something Other?  Perhaps he would send an inquiry to Elrond, to see if he might learn more of his wife’s history.  In order to best help her, he needed answers.

“Where are we going?”

“There is someone you should meet.”

Amdiredhel, loyal creature that he was, did not accept everyone.  It was important that he become familiar with Mellessil, and Ionien, so that there was no possibility of danger from the great elk when they were in close proximity. And Thranduil was certain that Mellessil would find his elk companion fascinating.

Their journey to the stables where Amdiredhel made his home took them through the upper levels of the halls, close to the doors. Even if Thranduil didn’t know his keep by heart, he would know it by the way the air cooled.  The autumn was leaving the forest and the cold coming in earnest.  Winter was upon them; fortunately their storehouses were full.  No one in his halls would go hungry this winter, and barring some calamity there would be no need to risk winter hunts for game. Elves did not rely on meat for their sustenance often, but in the deep winter, when their normal food supplies ran low, it was a staple. What they had already preserved should be more than enough to see them through.

The elves they passed on their walk stared curiously at them, as many of them were members of the guard coming in from rotation, who would be unaware of their presence until that moment. They spent three months on patrol before coming back in, unless there was urgent need for their return to the halls. Three months was the blink of an eye for an elf.  If they were returning, the next unit would be leaving; Legolas would leave for a rotation. Even in winter they must patrol their lands; neither spiders nor orcs hibernated.  

He watched Ionien closely as they neared the doors, worried she might make some ill-conceived escape attempt.  She looked as though she might bolt at the first opportunity. He would rather not keep her confined, but until he knew she would not run, she would stay in the halls.  That she was uneasy underground was apparent; he would have to see what might be done to aid her.  He could not recall if she had been so ill-at-ease before, but many elves who lived in the open found being in his halls difficult.  He was normally glad for that; it kept Elrond from visiting too frequently.  Only Galadriel made herself truly at home underground on the rare occasions she appeared in his country, but the Lady of Lorien had a talent for making herself at home anywhere.  Her husband, on the other hand…….well, Elrond was not the only elf that Thranduil delighted in making uncomfortable in his home.

Footsteps signaled someone approaching them, and taking care that they were noticed.  He looked from Ionien to see Legolas coming. He’d not seen his son since bringing Ionien home, since Legolas wisely decided to stay away from the woman whose husband he’d killed. Thranduil had hoped to see him before he left, but the timing left much to be desired. It was unlikely that Ionien was ready to bury her anger against him, and Thranduil wanted no more fighting. It would be some time before the elvenking was able to achieve peace within his family.

He knew the moment Ionien noticed Legolas by her sudden stiffening. She would have walked on, but he stopped her with a hand on her arm.

“He means you no harm, meleth.”

“Ada.”

Legolas stopped less than a foot from them, careful to stay out of Ionien’s reach.  She looked stunned at the address, and looked from father to son.  Had she not known? He couldn’t remember if he’d ever mentioned his son’s name the few times their conversations involved family.

“Ion nîn.”

“I leave for the border.”

It would be months before his son returned, if he returned at all.  It was entirely possible that he would lose Legolas to the wilds in the north again.  His son had found a friend in Aragorn, and he would feel obligation to rejoin him from time to time.

“We are for the stables. Will you join us?”

The request earned a look of surprise from his son, and a glare from his wife. Thranduil chose to ignore the anger he knew would be directed at him once they were alone.  Forgiveness for Legolas’ actions would understandably be slow to come, if it was ever possible, but they must learn to live in peace while they were both within the halls.

Legolas’ response was hesitant, but he accepted the offer, and it was a group of four that continued to the stables. At Thranduil’s summons, the giant elk made his way from the stall he claimed as his in winter, and greeted the new arrivals curiously.  Mellessil hung back as the elvenking introduced her to the creature, until he himself extended a hand to scratch behind Amdiredhel’s ear.

“He will not harm you, penneth. You may touch him.”

The awestruck expression on the child’s face as she petted the elk reminded the elvenking very much of the first time Legolas had encountered one of the great beasts, when he was al elfling no older than she. Great elks were truly impressive animals, especially to one who’d never encountered them before.  Amdiredhel relished the attention, leaning his massive head into the childish petting to allow better access.

Thranduil counted it a small victory when Ionien laid a hand to the elk’s soft muzzle, though he didn’t fail to notice that she was making a visual inspection of the stable’s exits. The door behind Amdiredhel’s stall stood open, allowing the elk to wander freely in and out of the halls.  He hoped she would not be so foolish as to attempt to run now.

“He remembers you,” the elvenking commented, drawing her attention back to the elk. Amdiredhel was very nearly head butting Ionien in his quest to nuzzle her.  The animal had long memory, and he certainly knew the one who saved his life.  That was good: he would know her if he encountered her in the words, and he would stop her if she tried to use his stall as an escape.

Amdiredhel had a soothing effect on both mother and daughter.  Mellessil’s delight was obvious, and an improvement over the last days’ grief.  Ionien was not the only one mourning the loss of the mortal, after all.  But children were much more adaptable than adults, so Thranduil was less worried about her finding her way.  It was his wife on whom he focused his attention.  As she stroked the velvet fur, the elvenking could feel her tension ebbing away, and calm settle in. Amdiredhel provided a comfort she would not seek from him.  He didn’t know whether to encourage it.  Would she forever seek comfort elsewhere?

Legolas’ presence served another purpose than simply providing good company.  As Ionien and Mellessil engaged with the elk, Legolas was devoting his attention to the horses that had taken to watching the new arrivals.   He was keeping a careful distance from Ionien, but Thranduil noted the wistful glances cast at the child.  Did Legolas see the resemblance? The king was able to discuss with his son the reports that he’d been putting off reading.  The darkness in the forest still spread, even if it did slow in the winter.  Andrathon had taken too many of his duties these many days, and it was time to put that right.  His responsibilities to the welfare of his people could not be delayed any longer. He could not continue delegating to Andrathon everything that required him to leave his room and his wife. Once their bond settled, and he did not have to worry at Ionien’s escape attempts, he would be able to return to ruling with no concerns.

It was a rare pleasure to have Legolas’ company in such easy communion.  Far too often his relationship with his son was contentious, more so as Legolas matured.  For now, there were no recriminations, nothing that needed to be said.  He envied his son his youth, and innocence.  For all that Legolas saw of the world, he was still ignorant of the greatest evils out there, and Thranduil hoped his son would never learn of them.  Legolas was unscarred by wars, and he should remain so, as should Mellessil.  The Valar willing, neither of his children would ever know the horrors he’d faced in his life, keeping the dark lord’s forces at bay.

Too soon their time together came to an end.  Tauriel appeared in the stables to retrieve her prince.

“I must go.”

“You will return? When your rotation ends?”

He knew his son’s restless spirit, but he was not ready to part with him again. 

“For a time.”

He raised a hand to his heart and extended it outwards, in farewell.  Legolas appeared surprised, but returned the gesture before following Tauriel, not once looking back.  Thranduil watched him go, hoping, as he did every time he sent his son to danger, that it would not be the last time he saw him on these shores.

“It is never easy to part with one’s children.”

Ionien would know, wouldn’t she?   Bard’s wife was dead, from childbirth, if Thranduil remembered correctly.  Ionien had lost a daughter.  Had she lost others? Considering that she’d had a number of husbands, an idea he couldn’t fathom, he could not discount the possibility. Might others attempt to make a claim of kinship?

“Have you other children?”

“I did. Their descendants are among the Dunedain. Some are in Gondor.”

Gondorians and Dunedain.  Far enough away that Thranduil doubted he would ever encounter them intentionally. He could only consider that a good thing, as he would have enough dealings with Bard’s children, and by extension the dwarves.  He did wonder, though, when Ionien last saw any of her other descendants. Did it pain her to be divided from them, as he knew it would pain him? He wished to ask, but the moment passed when she returned her attention to Amdiredhel.

When the afternoon passed into evening, Thranduil chose to direct them to dine in the main hall rather than return to their room.  It was a statement more definitive than any other he could make that they were seated beside him, at his table.  Only Bronwehel, her son, and a flame-haired elleth introduced as Eilianneth occupied the king’s table. He could feel Ionien bristle at what she viewed as being put on display for all to stare at.  He wondered if she would believe that was not his motivation, however lovely he found her. Bronwehel had asked after her, repeatedly, and this was the simplest way to answer her many inquiries.

“It is good that you are out of your room, Ionien.  You’ve spent too much time confined.”

Thranduil did his best to ignore the glare coming from his daughter-by-marriage, who seemed to blame him for Ionien’s self-imposed isolation. It was hardly his fault that Ionien refused to see anyone; he would have taken joy in seeing her begin to explore her home and take part in her people’s lives.  Eilianneth was looking at the new arrivals curiously, but a welcoming smile was on her face. His niece had only just returned from a rotation on patrol, so she would not have seen them before.  She would make a good companion for Ionien if his wife would allow it.

The children spoke animatedly to each other as the food was brought out, and it did Thranduil’s heart good to see it. Both children were in great need of friends, and there were few to be found here.  Too few children roamed the halls at all, as elves preferred to bear their children in times of peace.  Lostion and Mellessil would need to be each other’s allies.

Ionien did little more than pick at her food, no matter what he offered her, and he found that worrisome.  She did answer the questions sent her way politely, but made no other effort to contribute to the conversation. He noted Eilianneth’s concern at his wife’s action, and silently encouraged her to make the effort to engage Ionien throughout her rotation home. Bronwehel continued determinedly, as though there was nothing unusual in Ionien’s reticence, and lack of attention. Thranduil doubted the peredhel truly heard half of what was said to her. She continually glanced around the room as though on the lookout for danger, a fact that Thranduil found more than slightly insulting. As if anyone would dare to attack her when she was so close to their king.  He commanded the loyalty of his people.  Even if he did not, he certainly controlled their actions in his domain. Even those rare few who vocally opposed him did not dare risk his anger by openly acting against him. Whatever she imagined herself in danger from, she was safe here.


	8. Chapter 8

“You’ve made an enemy of Annúngileth.”

Ionien spun at the voice in the doorway, stopping in time to see Bronwehel bite back a smile.She’d been afraid it was Thranduil, and that she’d been caught.Her preparations to leave were almost complete, and if Thranduil discovered her it would be done for.

“She has been livid at the preference A Certain King shows you since you started joining us in the hall.”

“I did not expect that she would become an advocate.It is no surprise she is still and adversary.”

The only surprise in that was that Thranduil had not yet banished the elleth who insisted on causing trouble.A week’s time had done nothing to silence his sister-by-marriage. That the elvenking managed to maintain his temper was impressive.

“Why are you here?”

“You still insist on hiding in this room. Let us take a walk.”

It was an opportunity Ionien would seize; to walk without Thranduil’s company. To map out the city in her mind, and find those places the elvenking didn’t want her to know.

“The children---,” She didn’t want Mellessil to stumble on her packing either.The girl was making herself truly at home, fascinated by everything the elvenking shared with her.It would be difficult to detach her from this place if she grew too suspicious. Nor did Ionien want to risk her daughter saying something to the wrong elf and get back to Thranduil.It was for that very reason she’d sent Mellessil off with Lostion hours ago. That Bronwehel was at the door without them---

“They are well occupied in the library. Echirion will keep watch over them while they are in his domain.”

Satisfied, Ionien allowed her companion to tug her from the chamber.It was the first time she’d set foot outside the royal wing without Thranduil at her side.She could not afford to waste such fortune.

Several elves were becoming familiar enough that she recognized them when she passed them.Most of them nodded respectfully, but none of them appeared to be friendly. Ionien rather expected the not-quite-animosity they would extend a stranger, but it was a surprise to see the same directed at Bronwehel. She was one of them, after all.

“My absence was too long,” Bronwehel attempted to explain when she saw her companion’s confusion.

“But surely that was not your fault.”

“Perhaps not, but many lost friends, or kin, in the raid, and I am a reminder. Four hundred years Is not enough time for Elf’s memory to dim.”

“You were taken four hundred years ago?”

Ionien could not imagine four centuries’ captivity.What had this elleth been put through in that time?Many humans did not last more than a few decades enslaved, and most didn’t last more than a few years.

“I was passed through generations of one family, until they all died out.The last Man to own me gave me my freedom by making me his wife.”

It did not sound much like freedom if the requirement was an unchosen marriage.Perhaps legally it was improvement, but it seemed more like trading one form of servitude for another.Still, with the human’s death Bronwehel was freed, so perhaps it was a price she was willing to pay.

“You were brave to make the journey to your freedom.And now you are home.”

“Yes; this is my home.And it can be yours as well.”

Ionien froze, speechless.

“I know that you were unaware when you wed Thranduil, but it cannot be undone.I believe that you might be better served if instead of attempting to leave, you allowed yourself to remember why you wed him in the first place. There must have been a reason you were willing to give yourself to him, Ionien.”

She continued walking.

“It was weakness that made me willing.”

“I don’t believe that.”

Ionien paused in her walk only long enough to glare at her companion.No doubt Bronwehel meant well, but everything she said would be colored by her devotion to Thranduil.

“Something in him drew you enough to become his companion, even before you gave yourself to him. He clearly saw something in you; I did not think he would ever remarry.I do not believe that either of you would find someone else better suited.”

“Feredir was a better match, and a choice I made.”

“Feredir was a good man, but he was mortal.You were always going to lose him.Will you deny yourself forever for that?”

Those words spurred her back into motion.She would not argue with Bronwehel; not when she was so close to accomplishing her goal.Already she had the layout of the halls committed to memory, and she’d begun to track the patters of those who monitored it.She was long used to hunting and tracking, and she knew it would not take long to work out their routines.A day more, perhaps two, should be enough to map out the most likely escape route. Once she had that settled in her mind, she would be ready to leave.

Their walk took them down a hall that was quickly becoming familiar.It must be part of Thranduil’s plan, to lure her to the healing halls.It would be his idea of making her feel useful; finding a role she could accept.

“What new game is this?”

“It is no game, Ionien. Edraithon could use your skills.He lost an apprentice to Imladris.”

“Then that apprentice will return.”

“Perhaps so, but there is healing that will not wait until Oriel’s return, and my other apprentices are too new to be left on their own.Would you allow suffering, simply to be stubborn?”

Ionien glared at the healer who’d appeared in the doorway.His words were true.This Oriel might return from Elrond’s tutelage a much better healer than she would have been through her own efforts, but the need for healing would not wait.Elves still attained injuries in their occupations, and skirmishes with the evil creatures in the forest sent wounded soldiers back to the halls. To be short a competent healer had the potential to be incredibly dangerous.

“If you’ve finished wandering, and feeling sorry for yourself, there’s work to do.”

She admired the ellon’s candor.Those few elves who’d spoken to her had done so with the knowledge that she had their king’s favor, so they were much more diplomatic.Here at least she would not have to mince words.

Perhaps it would be wise to spend time healing. Let Thranduil think she was coming to accept this imprisonment and she would not be watched so closely.It would also allow her to gather intelligence under the guise of examinations.

“I will join you.”

Bronwehel left her with a smile, and Ionien soon found herself in the familiar rhythm of a healing ward. There was an expected pace in healing, one that nearly every healing house followed. It was good to be healing again.She could lose herself in her work, dispensing herbs and fixing wounds.

Two hours passed before Edraithon chased her from the room. With the injured seen to, there was nothing further for her to do.Bronwehel’s absence gave her the rare opportunity of walking alone, though she was mindful of the armed elf that shadowed her.Since he made no move to interfere, she elected to ignore him as she roamed.

She ventured away from those places she’d already seen, or remembered well. There must be hidden exits from these halls, things that were simply overlooked, and she was determined to find them.The route she’d taken when she first escaped was blocked by increased guards along the halls, and Thranduil would certainly have the stables watched.No, her exit must be one that none had ever considered before.

Mellessil would be the variable in her escape plans.Any passage out of Mirkwood would have to accommodate her travelling with her child. If fortune favored her, she could gain access to the upper levels and simply slip away unnoticed. A ring of power would be a most convenient thing to have for such and undertaking.It was too bad that the elvenking wasn’t a ring bearer; she could admire the justice of using his own trinket to escape his hold.

It hurt to think of abandoning Thranduil.She could not pretend otherwise.It hurt to know that this time she would intentionally deprive him of his child. The part of her that accepted their bond railed at her to reconsider what she meant to do, but Ionien ignored it.She was sorry—so very sorry—that her actions had led to this; Thranduil unable to bind himself to a woman who could stay by his side. She would forever regret depriving the elvenking of a chance to find happiness again, but she could not remain. She wouldn’t survive living away from the light, even if no other obstacles existed.And it was simply too dangerous to try to make her home among the elves.No, staying was impossible.

Metal striking metal made a distinctive sound. That sound roused Ionien from her tumultuous thoughts as she realized her wanderings had brought her to the training grounds, and someone was sparring. She’d spent considerable time in the training grounds on her first visit to Mirkwood, but not once had she set foot on the filed since Thranduil brought her back. It would be foolish of the elvenking to allow her within easy reach of weapons, and he was no fool.Her steps carried her to a ledge that she discovered was an overlook to the ground below. From her vantage point she had a clear view of the ellon who moved with twin swords, and the elleth who faced him with only one.She would recognize that moon-white hair and long body anywhere, though any outer robes of kingship were discarded. Even without them, Thranduil’s bearing ensured he would never be mistaken for another elf as he sparred with his niece.

Those who had gathered to train instead stood witness at their king’s expertise.Though he might travel with a guard of Elites, Thranduil was likely the creature most capable of taking care of himself in all of Mirkwood.Ionien wondered if any of the others had dared to take up arms against their king, even in practice.He was utterly beautiful.

Thranduil could feel Ionien’s eyes on him as he moved against Eilianneth.Even with all the attention they received, he knew the moment his wife’s gaze landed on them. He’d feared that she would use her recent freedom to attempt to run, and had been relieved to learn she’d instead gone to work in the healing ward.

He could not understand her current mood, but he knew the moment her thoughts turned to appreciation of his form.Though many considered him almost as lovely as Galadriel, it was pleasing to know that his wife found him beautiful.It was soothing to his vanity to know she wasn’t as indifferent to him as she wished to appear.She wasn’t immune to their bond.

He knew he’d been at practice too long when his scars began to pain him.Not just those on his face, but the many battle scars that lined his body; all of them told him he’d had enough.Since they were not in battle, there was no need to ignore them and work through the pain.

After a few more exchanges with Eilianneth he ended the match.His niece stood across from him, chest heaving and sweat dripping from her forehead, and the first thought to occur to him was that she was nearly the image of her mother.His sister had been highly sought after; if Eilianneth had not settled on one of his soldiers Thranduil had no doubt that an endless stream of elves would be knocking on his door to ask for her hand.

It was a shame the recently declared pair were still on separate patrols. Eilianneth was angry with him for demanding that they wait so long to officially marry, but he knew it was for the best. He would do the same for any couple so young that sought to pledge themselves. Both of them were terribly young by elvish standards, only barely considered adults, and he did not wish to see his niece in a union she might come to regret because she rushed in too hastily.A century was nothing to an elf; a few decades wait would do them no harm, and it would allow them time to be certain before they rushed into something that could not be undone. He approved of Celegon, and when the time came they would have his full blessing on their marriage.It would be a few decades more before they made their pledges, so there was no urgency to rearrange their rotations. Once they married, that would be sorted out.Until then, he was certain he could look forward to more challenges from his niece as she worked out her frustrations.

“You’re much improved.”

“Thank you, uncle.”

He accepted the towel she offered to wipe down his own face, brushing his hair out of the way as he did so. It was fortunate that Andrathon was not present to witness; his seneschal wouldn’t be able to refrain from putting his hair to rights. The elvenking relished being able to leave it free without interference.

A nod was all that was necessary for all the elves to clear the field; even the guard he’d set on Ionien.Once they were alone he looked up at his wife.He rather regretted that she’d foregone the dresses he’d presented her with, as they made her look the part of his queen, but he would admit she seemed much more comfortable in the rust-colored long coat and leggings.Less a queen, and more a wandered, but still she looked lovely.

“Will you join me?”

She looked started at being addressed, but nodded.When she chose to scale down the wall rather than take the path down, Thranduil knew he should have been more specific.He watched, silently terrified that she would miss and handhold and he would watch her plummet to the ground.Even Legolas and Eilianneth did not scale that wall.

“You are determined to harm yourself?”

“There was little risk.I have attempted far more dangerous things, and succeeded.”

He did not find that reassuring.There were many trials Ionien faced while living among men that she did not need to face under his roof.He would not sit by and watch her take needless risk.He could not.

“There is no need for such risk here, meleth. I would see you in the healing wards as a healer, not a patient.”

“Would you wrap me in wool, to protect me from every little thing? I am a Ranger, Thranduil.I undertake great risk every day.”

“You are my wife, Ionien. Of course I would protect you from everything that is within my power to do so.”

“I am not your responsibility, elvenking.”

“Everyone in this hall is my responsibility, Ionien.Do you think you are the exception?”

Could she genuinely think that he would have no regard for her safety? That she was somehow less important than any of his people?No. She was not so foolish as that. Perhaps she simply considered her safety unimportant.

“You carry too many responsibilities, elvenking.”

“Would you help me carry them?”

She could be the greatest help to him, if only she would.How many evenings had been spent discussing burdens, with the different perspective she offered helping to find a solution? Together they were a most effective unit. Judging from her almost stricken expression, she remembered as well.

“I cannot—I cannot be what you want me to be, Thranduil.”

“I want only for you to be what you are.”

He could never wish to change her. To change anything about her would be to remove that which he loved. He wished only that she would stop fighting herself, and make the choice to accept.There was no requirement she must meet to be his wife, only acceptance of the role.

He looped her arm through his as he escorted her from the field.It was an unusual gesture among his people, who considered a hand to be sufficient guidance, but Thranduil could not trust his wife.He wished, sincerely, that he could trust in her recent cooperation, but he knew that she would fly from him if given the opportunity.Her cooperation was most likely a ploy.

“What I am—“

“What you are is of the elves,” he interrupted before she could begin again her arguments for why their bond was wrong.“By your own admission you’ve spent little time among those whom you most closely resemble.If you were to learn more of our ways, none of this would seem so foreign that you must strike against it.”

If she could but allow herself—but he would not repeat himself again on the subject.Not today, when he had her company.

“Bard is due to arrive in two days,” he informed her as they strolled.“I believe he intends to bring his youngest child.”

“Bard is coming?”

“He is.”

Despite the elvenking’s objections, the human was coming.He would not keep Ionien from her kin, but how could any of them expect her to settle with the elves if the human continually appeared? Thranduil did not think it unreasonable to ask the human to keep away for a few months.Surely it was a greater kindness to allow the peredhel time to adapt without constant reminders of her human life?But at least it was not a dwarf preparing to knock on her door.It would be some time before he was prepared to welcome those beings in his halls again.

“It will be good to see Tilda again.”

Thranduil remembered the child, and her last visit to his halls, and nearly winced.

“When she was last here, she attempted to join my archers for training. Bard caught Andrathon attempting to teach her to use a sword.”

“I shall have to see to her lessons while she’s here.”

“If you wish to practice archery, you have only to say so.We can easily arrange practice for you.”

“I would prefer swords.”

“Absolutely not.You’ve already stolen mine once.And I do not believe allowing swords would be safe for Annúngileth and her followers.”

“I’m surprised you allow her to stay when she causes you such trouble.”

“It is more complex than simply tossing her out.”

“Truly.”

“Truly. But I do not wish to sour my afternoon with discussion of Annúngileth.There is something I wished to show you.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to say that the only thing she wished to see was a way out of this prison, but she refrained.If she wished to disarm Thranduil she should not antagonize him.Instead she allowed him to guide her through a maze of tunnels until they reached a part of the city she did not recognize.She could hear rushing water.They must be near and underground spring.When they reached their destination she was shocked to see not simply a spring, but a whirlpool, fed by what was nearly a river.Of course, this river must be source of the hall’s water supply.

“What is this place?”

“We diverted part of the river, centuries ago, to create this place.”

Ionien finally looked past the river, and the whirlpool, to see fields that lay fallow. The elvenking had brought her to the fields where the elves grew their grain?

“Once the crops have been harvested, there is no better place to come in search of solitude.”

Mirrors lined the walls of the cavern to reflect the sunlight that filtered through the open ceiling.It was remarkable that the elves had managed to engineer such a place underground, yet it saddened her that they did so.How long had they been forced to live in a mountain, away from the light that all elves loved?

“Are you often in need of solitude?”

“One always wishes for solitude when there are constant demands on one’s attention.”

In other words, she was correct.How lonely it must be to be king.Befriending a king was a difficult task among mortals; she imagined that it could not be so different among elves.To always question whether those closest to you simply sought your favor or genuinely cared; to have so little time for oneself that it was necessary to hide to achieve it—being king must be lonely indeed.

She wished that she could ease his burdens, just for a time.She could alleviate the pain he felt, but that would not relieve his cares. It was terrible that she could not be more help to him than to simply remove physical pain.

She could feel the edges of that pain through their bond, and quickly laid a hand on his back. She’d never seen those scares, but she knew of their existence. She’d found it amusing that the great Thranduil had no issue with revealing the horrific wound from the dragon, but refused to allow her to see the other scars on his body.She’d traced them in the darkness the night she spent in his arms, but had yet to lay eyes on them.

Thranduil stiffened at the contact, hissing as the heat of her palm seeped through the fabric of his tunic.Cooling relief spread through the scars that marred his back as Ionien chanted lowly.Of course she would know of them, even if he’d never let her see them.Perhaps it was time to change that.They would not be disturbed in this place.

“Come.”

He stepped to the whirlpool, removing his long coat and tunic as he did so.His boots and breeches followed, until he stood bare before her.

“Join me,” he invited as he stepped down into the pool, allowing the cool water to soothe his aches. Before he sought rest he would soak in the heat of his bath, but for now it was the cool water that he needed.He could not help the satisfied moan that escaped as he sank into the water.He extended a hand in invitation to the elleth who stood by uncertainly.

“No one will see you, Ionien. We are quite alone here.”

It was no the privacy of his rooms with a door that locked, but Andrathon knew where he would go once practice finished, and would deter anyone looking for him.No one would dare disturb him in this place, and even if they attempted to the guards that were his constant shadows would keep them out. They were almost completely alone.

“Come, Ionien. Join me.”

He didn’t realize he was holding his breath as she removed her clothes until he was required to breathe. She slipped into the water as quickly as she could, as though she doubted their privacy.

“It is cold.”

Of course.As peredhel she would feel the cold more keenly. Thranduil reached for her hand and pulled her to him so that she was seated on his legs, and enveloped her in his arms.

“Then I shall warm you.”

“Don’t!”

“I’m hardly going to molest you, Meleth. Relax. Enjoy the water.”

She pushed ineffectually at his grip on her.In response his arms tightened their hold.She could feel him, all of him, underneath her, and it sent her to near panic.She would not make the mistake of sharing her body with him again; she was determined, but the feel of skin on skin weakened her resolve.What surprised her was that he pushed for nothing.Indeed, his body barely reacted to having her in his lap.He seemed content to simply hold her.

He WAS warming her, with the heat of his body at her back.When he leaned forward to rest his chin on her shoulder, his hair fell forward around her, trapping in that warmth.

“I know you intend to try to run again, meleth,” he practically purred in her ear.“Please reconsider.Do not do something that will cause so much pain to us both.I could not bear to see you suffer so.”

 

 


	9. Guests

“Ionien!”

Tilda’s shriek filled the entire audience chamber as the mortal girl broke from the ranks of the visitors from Dale and practically flung herself at the elf. Started elves scattered out of the way as the human nearly ran them over. Bard’s admonition did nothing to slow her down, and Thranduil only barely managed to avoid a collision.

Ionien reacted slowly to her granddaughter’s enthusiasm, carefully returning the embrace she found herself in. She could fee Thranduil’s eyes on her, along with the rest of the hall. Tilda’s complete disregard for protocol was a welcome diversion, but that did not ease discomfort with such contact. 

Bard was saying something official that caused a tic in Thranduil’s otherwise neutral expression. Had he said something about dwarves? That would certainly set the elvenking in a sour mood. Ionien chose to disregard the niceties of two rulers meeting, and instead pull Mellessil to meet the woman who was technically her niece. The child was most curious about this stranger she’d never met.

“You look so fancy!”

Since it was a formal reception, there was no option but to wear a gown. Ionien had put up quite a fight over it, but she’d lost. She was in the rose silk, and the circlet denoting her high rank. All the elves that lined the reception hall wore formal dress. Even Thranduil’s Elites wore what passed for formal robes. It was a mark of respect for their guests.

“So do you.”

It was most startling to see Bard dressed in the clothes of a king. It was still difficult to believe the simple bargeman had achieved such a role. Even more astonishing was that he filled the position with none of the unease she expected from a man who loathed even the idea of being king. There was no evidence in his bearing now of how hard he’d tried to refuse the role when it was thrust on him. He and Tilda both wore the finery that denoted their rank. They were decked in velvet against the cooling weather, but where Bard looked uncomfortable in his long tunic and robe, Tilda looked perfectly at ease in her gown and slippers. The young one’s hair had been painstakingly braided into a coronet, with tiny flowers decorating it, and Ionien winced in sympathy at the thought of how long the task must have taken. No longer a young girl, Tilda was most certainly a woman, and it seemed that every male was aware of that fact. No wonder Alfrid was pressing his suit.

Without a word to either man watching, Ionien scooped up Mellessil and looped Tilda’s arm through her own free one, leading the way out of the hall. She could no longer bear the press of so many elves around her, not when her mind railed that they were a threat. There were too many of them.

“Ionien?”

Tilda’s concern was evidence enough that she wasn’t hiding her feelings as well as she thought. If Tilda noticed, Thranduil did as well, and he would bring it up later. Still, she wasn’t going to concern herself with that until she needed to. Since she’d failed to escape before Bard’s arrival, she was working on a new plan. With Tilda’s inquisitiveness and her knack for poking around places she shouldn’t necessarily be, no one would think anything out of the ordinary if they roamed the halls. Thranduil would be kept busy with Bard, and what issues the human had come to discuss; it would be the perfect time to leave.

“Da said you’re married to the elfking now.”

“That’s what he thinks.”

“Where are we going?”

She stopped at the question. She had no destination in mind beyond getting away from the chamber full of elves who watched her every move.

“Where would you like to go?”

Tilda’s choice was to find new caverns to explore. Any path that Ionien did not know was a path that interested her. She explained as they walked that she would do the same when visiting Sigrid; choosing to venture into places that weren’t known. Such a move might suit the caverns of the dwarf mountain, but in Lasgalen that approach led Tilda to the bathing houses of the guard’s barracks. Ionien immediately slapped a hand over the human’s eyes as elves strolled the chamber; unclothed and unconcerned about their nudity. This was an excursion Bard did not need to know about.

“I never thought I’d see an elf walking around naked,” Tilda commented as Ionien nearly dragged her away.

“I’m sure I don’t need to tell you not to attempt to go that way again.”

“Emel, why were those elves naked together?”

Ionien glared at Tilda, whose peals of laughter nearly drowned out Mellessil’s innocent question. The concept of bathing as a group activity would be entirely foreign to the child. Where they lived, humans bathed in private. Even when travelling with other Rangers, they kept washing to themselves.

“What did you call me?”

“Emel. Ada Thranduil said that’s how you say mama in Sindarin. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes, it is. Very good.”

Thranduil was teaching her daughter Sindarin? And she called him ada? What else had she failed to notice in her self-pity? With a final glare to Tilda, she turned them towards the safety of the royal wing, where it was guaranteed they would encounter no more naked elves. She kept her explanation to Mellessil as succinct as possible, though Tilda still snickered and added her own thoughts. At least they had intruded on something innocent, such as bathing. Valar forbid they had stumbled upon something intimate.

It was Bard they encountered first, though Thranduil was right behind him. They must have continued the afternoon together. The elvenking was watching her with the same concern he’d had when she left the great hall. 

“There you are! We were starting to worry you were lost!”

It was more likely that Thranduil thought she’d tried to run than that they’d gotten lost. 

“Not at all, Da. We just topped to admire some scenery.”

Ionien scowled at her granddaughter, earning an amused look from her son-by-marriage. 

“We saw naked men,” Mellessil piped in helpfully. 

That declaration drew the stupefied expressions of both the King of Dale and the Elvenking. 

“You did what?”

“We stumbled upon the guards’ barracks. Some of them were bathing,” Ionien supplied quickly at the murderous look in Thranduil’s eyes. Bard simply looked to his offspring; sure that it was somehow her fault. 

“If it’s elves you want to see, Tilda, you’ll find enough to satisfy your enthusiasm. The king informs me that he’s expecting more visitors.”

Ionien looked to Thranduil, unsure of Bard’s meaning. He’d said nothing to her of more visitors, let alone the elves Bard seemed to imply.

“We received the message only this afternoon. Elrond arrives in two days.”

It did not please him to have to announce such news. He’d written Elrond concerning Ionien’s history. He’d expected a written reply, not a carrier bird with the message that the Lord of Imladris was already on his way.

“What could bring the Lord of Rivendell to Mirkwood?”

“I expect that it is much to do with your residence here, but you will have the opportunity to question him when he arrives with his party.”

If his sons accompanied him, there would be no peace within the halls. Perhaps he would suggest that they join Legolas on the borders. At least this visit would not bring the elves from Lorien as well. Elrond could be an insufferable pain when he chose, but Elrond alone was easily dealt with.

“Are they coming from far away?”

The mortal girl fairly burned with curiosity, and Thranduil gave serious consideration to setting her loose on Elrond when he arrived. That would be a sight indeed.

“It is a far enough distance that he will likely be with us for some time.”

He’d immediately set Astel to preparing chambers for the party, the moment he received the letter. It would take most of the two days to have them ready to that woman’s satisfaction. He’d ordered her to anticipate at least a fortnight stay by the Imladris elves, but it could just as easily become two months instead. When elves to the trouble to travel, their visits tended to be lengthy.

As he watched, Ionien seemed to pale, and he wondered what this visit of Elrond’s would mean for her. She was so uneasy among his people; a face he noticed, though he knew she wished he did not. Would she be any easier among elves she’d spent more time with? Would she ask the twins to help her escape? Thranduil feared the elf lord’s untimely arrival would only make things more difficult for his young wife, which was not what he wanted.

He distantly heard Tilda wondering what the new elves would look like, and Bard’s less than helpful answer that they would look like elves. With his focus on his wife, he noticed the moment she seemed to disconnect from her surroundings. A quick scan was sufficient do deter the fear that she might try to fade again; her light was firmly anchored. No, it seemed a retreat into her mind that was taking place, but he was not one who could easily know another’s thoughts. He was not Galadriel.

“What troubles you?”

He put the question to her in Sindarin, so as not to alert Bard that there was a problem. If it was not an insult to a guest, he would leave the humans to themselves so that he might address Ionien privately. The wait until it was time to retire for the evening suddenly seemed interminable. To add to the injury, they must sit through a formal dinner for the delegation from Dale.

“There are too many elves as it is.”

“Surely you do not believe that Elrond would harm you. Nor would any of our people. There is no cause for you to be so ill-at-ease.”

He grew weary of the same argument repeated. It was an insult to him to insinuate that he couldn’t protect her. She snorted at his declaration.

“You forget Annúngileth. She would happily see me gone.”

“That is true.”

If her humor returned, he would count himself fortunate. It had not made an appearance since she came home. Too much of her spirit had been subdued since he explained her position. At the same time, she was not yet subdued enough to accept her fate, which was a most frustrating thing. He wished to make it easier for her, but she was providing no clue as to how he might accomplish it. At least their daughter readily accepted that she had a new home.

“I do not wish to fight with you, Ionien.”

“You could try to be less irritating.”

Bard snorted, which was the only indication that Ionien had switched to the Common Tongue. Tilda looked to be on the verge of laughing.

“The same could be said for you.”

“You should know better than to hope for that.”

“I do indeed.”

Their audience was becoming too interested in their debate. The passing days had not settled their bond, as he’d expected; in fact, Ionien only challenged him more. Thranduil did not wish Bard to know how strained things still were between them. The human had entrusted Ionien to his care, and he did not want the Man to think he’d made an error, or have cause to aid Ionien’s likely escape attempt.

“I am inclined to believe you wish to rest and refresh yourselves before dinner. Andrathon will escort you.”

His seneschal appeared at the silent summons to escort the humans away, and Thranduil breathed a sigh of relief. He needed solitude after such a long day, away from the press of mortal men and their concerns. There was time enough before dinner to re-center himself and rest from the eyes of his people. If Mellessil was occupied elsewhere, it would be perfect.

“You are in pain?”

His face had pained him during the day, more so than usual, but when Ionien reached for him he shrank away. He would not frighten his child by allowing the illusion to fall way, nor would he so such a thing outside the privacy of their rooms. He heard Ionien mutter something that questioned his sense as they stepped into the chamber. He stopped her when she reached for him again.

“Send her to Bronwehel.”

“She is not afraid of flesh, nor would I teach her to be so.”

To his consternation, she actually drew Mellessil closer. He did not want the child to see the ruin he’d become. It was best to keep her innocent. That his wife not only disagreed but acted in complete opposition infuriated him. Only the child’s presence prevented him from responding harshly.

“Let her see.”

“I will do no such thing.”

“Then you can wallow in your pain,” she hissed at him.

“You’re in pain, Ada Thranduil?”

Why must Ionien bring up such a thing in front of their daughter? Was this punishment, because he encouraged Mellessil to call him ada? Could Ionien be so angered she would try to sever the growing relationship between parent and child?

“Yes, he’s in pain,” Ionien answered bluntly, not giving Thranduil an opportunity to deny it. “He’s in pain because he’s stubborn, and afraid to show anyone where he was badly hurt.”

“You were hurt, ada Thranduil?”

The girl’s lip trembled, as though she might cry if he was hurt.

“It was a very long time ago,” he was quick to reassure her.

“You must let emel help you,” Mellessil answered after some deliberation. “She can heal anything. She can help you!”

“She already does help me, Little One. But this is not something that you should see.”

“I’m not afraid! I’ve seen lotsa hurts!”

The glare the child gave him was almost a miniature copy of the one her mother wore. Thranduil was sure he wore a matching expression. What could Ionien mean, taking their daughter around the wounded?

“Humans get hurt, Thranduil,” she answered his silent challenge in Sindarin, so that the child wouldn’t understand the argument, “it is a fact of life. Of course she has seen illness and injury, living among Men.”

Yet another reason for him to hate the mortal she’d left him for. If Mellessil had been born among her own people, this argument would not now be taking place. Elf children were not exposed to such things if it could possibly be avoided.

Unable to endure the two females glaring at him on top of the increasing pain, the elvenking finally allowed the illusion to fall away and the ruin of his face to be revealed. Mellessil instinctively took a step back to lean into her mother, but Ionien guided her closer.

“It is nothing to fear, Mellessil. It is simply an old wound.”

“But it didn’t heal.”

“It was caused by dragon fire. Such wounds don’t heal as they should, which is why Thranduil feels such pain.”

“It won’t get better at all?”

At that innocent question, the elvenking sucked in a breath. On the rare occasions he looked in a mirror with the illusion gone, he’d imagined that there had been some small improvement. Was it simply wishful thinking that he saw flesh where there had been none before? Was he simply fooling himself with the desperate hope that he could be healed?

“It is healing, but it will take a very, very long time. And we can make the pain go away for a time, which is what we shall do now.”

With that explanation, Ionien laid her hand against the injury as she had so many times before, and Thranduil could feel the pain ebb away.

“You should have gone to Elrond with this when it first happened,” she chastised as she often had. “It would have been healed before now.”

“You are the healer I most trust, meleth.”

“I was not alive when this occurred, imbecile.”

The words were harsh, but the tone was warm. Thranduil took comfort in that as much as he did her touch. To his surprise, Mellessil wrapped her arms around his waist, and placed a kiss on his hand.

“I kissed it better, ada Thranduil.”

He looked to Ionien, and she smiled as she explained the human custom he was so unfamiliar with. Strange that such a simple act could mean so much to a child; a simple kiss could make everything better. And Mellessil thought to do the same for him? He was touched.

“My thanks, penneth.”

The child could not stifle a yawn. It had been an eventful day. This time Ionien did not object to his summoning Bronwehel. Mellessil would not join them for dinner; she and Lostion would stay apart under the watchful eye of Bronwehel and one of the Elites. Formal dinners were too often mind numbingly dull for an adult. He would not subject a child to such torture. 

They would not be isolated. At the moment there were perhaps a dozen elflings in all of Mirkwood, and they would all remain away from the gathering. Bronwehel had been quick to volunteer her supervision in addition to his guard. Thranduil wished she would not have so difficult a time as she was settling back into her home. Dull as he often found these dinners, he rather wished he was at liberty to skip the affair as the children were.

Soon enough they were alone again. Thranduil used the solitude to remove the outer layers of his clothing. The coat would need to be cleaned to return it to its spotless state. It was relief to be free of the weight of the garment that trailed the floor when he walked.

“You’re very quiet. What are you thinking of?”

“Many things.”

“Tell me.”

He wanted to know her mind. She still shared so little. The lengths to which she went to keep her thoughts private disturbed him, as it suggested she still meant to try to run. 

“It’s time Tilda took a husband. I was surprised that Bard had not yet seen to it.”

She wished to speak of her human family? It was not quite what he’d expected, but Thranduil pursued the subject as they changed for dinner. To him Tilda was still a child, and the thought that she would be ready for marriage was most humorous. Though upon reflection, the elder daughter had not been much older when she married. Mortal lives were so short, they did marry young.

“I suppose she’ll find some mortal in the city. Or perhaps one of the neighboring kingdoms if Bard wishes to make a treaty.”

“He would not force her into a marriage she did not agree to, and it is unlikely she would agree to marry a stranger. It will most likely be a Man of Dale.”

“You would know Bard’s mind better than I. It was Sigrid’s choice then, to marry the dwarf?”

He’d thought the marriage of the king under the mountain to be an arrangement of convenience. It had certainly proven beneficial for human and dwarf alike. He had not expected that the human would have chosen the dwarf from genuine affection.

“Fili was her choice.”

“I understand the son has not yet chosen a wife?”

Tilda was the youngest, so if she was old enough to marry, it was past time the son did so. If Dale was to survive, it needed the continuity of a stable royal line. As heir, it was important that Bain marry and produce his own children, yet Bard had said nothing of any pending marriage.

“I know. It worries Bard as well. If something happened to him, Bain would be on his own, without the support of a queen. I believe that if he showed any interest in a girl, Bard would accept her with no questions asked.”

That Thranduil could agree with. It would be most unlike the Bowman to have requirements beyond true affection, unlike the elves. Thranduil almost wished he could be so relaxed in his requirements for Legolas, but any woman who would be his son’s wife must be one who could handle the responsibility of a people. That Tauriel had proven herself capable of leading and commanding the respect of his guard was the exception among common elves, rather than the rule. Most of them were content with choosing an occupation and settling into a role within the kingdom, but not venturing far out of it. Legolas’ wife must be capable of fulfilling a much larger role.

Thranduil pulled himself from his thoughts in favor of staring at Ionien as she stepped into view. He anticipated eagerly the day she no longer felt she needed to conceal herself from him, but tonight the surprise was exquisite. She’d chosen the yellow silk, and he was more than satisfied with the work the seamstress had put into the garment. It was most fortunate that he did not send the material to Rivendell as he’d planned. Ionien was as radiant as the sun.

If she was the sun, the elvenking himself was pale moonlight, in his long coat of silver shot through with shimmering threads. He would forego the smaller king’s circlet in favor of the Living Crown for the occasion; a reminder to certain among his people of his authority. Annúngileth’s venom would not be tolerated while they had guests.

“Will the humans expect dancing?”

Over the years Bard had been a frequent guest of the king, but Mirkwood had not played host to so many humans since that first winter. Thranduil had no notion of what the crowd might expect. It wouldn’t do to disappoint them.

“Some of them might, but Bard would be more pleased if there was not. I am certain that he would prefer not even to have a formal dinner.”

“That cannot be helped. I’ll not have so many visitors wandering my halls, losing their way in search of food.”

Ionien could not fault that logic after her afternoon with Tilda. There was simply no telling how many places humans could wander where they shouldn’t if they were left to their own devices. When Thranduil offered his hand to escort her to dinner, she accepted it. It would prove unnerving to sit at the king’s table with so many eyes on her, but she would manage it.  
\----------------------  
Two days passage did indeed see to the addition of more elves. The party from Rivendell arrived precisely when the message had said, and Ionien found herself once again standing to receive new guests, Mellessil standing beside her. Elrond, as head of his party, approached the throne, but the proud elf did not deign to bow. Instead his gaze stayed fixed on the throne, the king that occupied it, and the woman whose own seat had been placed beside it. Ionien had done nothing more than shake her head at the sight of a second throne, and there was truly no other word for it, installed at a slightly lower level than the kings throne. Others might be touched by the gesture the king made in adding it, when a queen would ordinarily stand at the foot of the throne, but Ionien neither needed nor wanted such a decoration in her name. Surely Thranduil did not need to resort to such formality when greeting an elf he’d known for millennia.

“I had not expected that I would soon be receiving the Lord of Imladris,” Thranduil commented lazily as Elrond stood straight before him. “What could draw you from your sanctuary?”

“Considering the news you sent, my arrival should have been anticipated, Thranduil. Had you sent such word to Lorien, I’m certain Galadriel would be in attendance as well. It isn’t every day one hears such unexpected tales from the Elvenking.”

Ionien found herself in the dark-haired elf’s gaze, almost as if he expected her to either confirm or deny whatever he’d heard from the king of Mirkwood. She remained silent, holding Mellessil close to her as she resumed her seat. She was in no mood to begin the argument over her status again, and certainly not in public. 

Unsettling as it was to have Elrond’s attention fixed on her, it was worse to see that both Elladan and Elrohir had her in their sights as well. She was uncertain that she could handle all three of them at once. They would be worse to deal with than Thranduil.

She looked past the three to the rest of Elrond’s entourage. It was a small group, but she recognized Lindir, as well as Acharon and Cothor, who regularly hunted orcs with their lord and his sons. When she looked past them to the seventh and final member of the group, she froze. She’d seen that golden elf only once before, but she never wanted to see his face again. How had he found his way here? How had he found her? 

“Ionien? Are you well?”

All eyes were on her, and she wondered at her expression that Elladan looked ready to draw his sword. She worked to smooth any sign of distress; it wouldn’t do for any to see how affected she was by the elf’s presence. Bard looked worried, Elrond’s normally neutral expression was one of concern as he looked her over, and she could feel Thranduil’s agitation at her change in mood. She must not alert them to the fact that anything was wrong. 

“I am well.”

Thranduil started at her answer, and she thought it might be the first time she’d ever answered him across their bond. Let him think she was softening; it would only aid her. She turned all of her attention to Elrond, and the twins. From the corner of her eye, Ionien could see Tilda practically shaking with excitement at the new arrivals, and Bard reaching out to steady his daughter. 

“You are welcome to Lasgalen, Elrond.”

With Thranduil’s pronouncement, the audience seemed to be over, and Ionien breathed a sigh of relief when the elf lord’s entourage dispersed to seek their own entertainment. The golden one stared hard at her, his eyes narrowing, before Lindir drew him off.  
\----------------------------------  
Ionien waited until they were alone to slip the powder she’d stolen from the healing ward into Thranduil’s wine. Once he drank it, he would fall into a deep sleep for several hours, giving her enough time to escape. She’d given consideration to staying, and allowing this bond with Thranduil to proceed, but that changed the moment Elrond’s followers included a golden-haired murderer.

“Something distressed you during the audience today.”

Thranduil’s voice was so close that she nearly dropped the goblet she’d been pouring. How did the man move so silently that she didn’t hear him cross the room? She could practically feel the heat of him through the layers of their clothing, so close at her back was he.

“I did not recognize one who came with Elrond. The golden-haired one.”

“Glorfindel. It’s no surprise that he made you uneasy. He’s been even more insufferable since his return than he was before he died.”

“He died?”

“It is a story too long, and too tedious to dwell on. I would prefer not to think on him so long.”

He accepted the offered drink, and raised it to his lips. Ionien watched the muscles of his throat work as he drained the goblet of its contents. She would forever regret that it had come to this.

“This tastes strange. Ionien, what have you done?”

“I’m sorry.”

He leaned heavily on her as he lost consciousness, and she struggled to maneuver him to the bed. She fought back the urge to lie down beside him and wait for him to wake. She could do it, and all would be forgiven because she hadn’t run. She could stay with this man who did make her feel treasured, despite her best efforts.

There was no time to waste with regrets and traitorous thoughts. The herbs would only keep him out for so long; she must be far away before he came to. She grabbed her pack that contained the bedroll she’d commandeered and enough lembas to last for several days. The bundle would be light to carry, which she needed. 

The hallway was deserted, which she’d expected, and she quickly made her way to Mellessil’s room. She expected to find her daughter asleep in bed. She did not expect to find Bard and Tilda waiting for her.

“I knew you were going to run. I could see it on your face; something’s happened.”

I have no time to explain, Bard. I must leave immediately.”

“You cannot run from Thranduil. And it is not your way to sneak out like a thief in the night. What’s wrong? ”

“I cannot say, Bard. I—I would not leave Thranduil in this way but it is imperative that I go. Stand aside.”

The human gave her a long look before stepping away from the child’s bed and allowing Ionien to collect her daughter. 

“Tilda will go with you, and take you the back way into Erebor. You can stay with Sigrid, for as long as you need.”

“Thank you Bard.”

She was pulled into a tight embrace, which she returned. If all went according to plan, she would not see Bard again for years. She might never see him again.


	10. Visiting

Thranduil woke to an ache in his head that spoke of too much wine. Since he’d had not even a full glass of the Dorwinion the night before, he knew the drink was not to blame. Ionien must have given him something very strong indeed.

He would find her. As soon as he could move, he would being the search and run her to ground. She forgot that with their fëar joined she could not hide from him, especially within his own wood. She wouldn’t be able to elude him.

“I don’t know what she slipped you, but your healer suggested a great deal of water.”

How had he not known that Bard was inside his private chamber? The cup was practically shoved beneath his nose, and he quickly drained its contents. He had not time to waste, ridding himself of this stupor.  He must set off at once to track down his wife, and bring her home.  His attempt to stand was not quite successful, as he was forced to immediately sit back down.

“Easy Thranduil. You mustn’t move too quickly. This intoxication must run its course.”

“I am not intoxicated.”

“Perhaps not in the usual sense, but it would appear that your mind is the only part of you that knows it.”

Thranduil swore softly when he was still unable to stand under his own power.

“I must leave at once, Bard. Do not think to stop me.”

“You’ll serve no one by collapsing in a heap on the floor, Thranduil.”

“Ionien has run again. I must find her before she can attract trouble.”

“I know.”

The cup was refilled and once again handed to the elvenking.

“She will be safe, Thranduil. You must give her time.”

“You know where she went?”

It infuriated him that the Bowman did no more than raise an eyebrow at his glare. He’d sent lesser men running from his expression alone.  The mortal showed no respect.

“I sent her to Sigrid. She will be safe enough in the mountain.”

“You sent her--?”

He should have known the Man would go back on his word. When had humans ever proven themselves true? If he could summon the strength, he would eject Bard and all his company into the woods personally.

“Calm yourself Thranduil. I am not your enemy.”

“You’ve taken my wife from me, and you would still call yourself my friend?”

“I sent Ionien somewhere she would be safe, and free to come to her senses. At the moment I’d say you both of you need to clear your heads.”

The human looked more amused than anything, and Thranduil cursed the weakness that kept him from putting the man in his place. Bard could not comprehend what he’d done, and the suffering it would cause.

“What you’ve done will cause her tremendous pain.”

“So you’ve said. And I’m inclined to believe you, as much as I believe that she must experience it for herself to know you speak the truth, though I wish that wasn’t so. If she does not make the choice to stay with you, Thranduil, she’ll never stop trying to run.”

Bard waited a moment, wondering if Thranduil would say anything. The elvenking did no more than glare, a fact Bard found most amusing. It was refreshing to be able to say what needed to be said without being interrupted by the elf’s ego.  Still, he wasn’t purposely trying to cause the elf more pain, and he knew the concern was genuine.

“In Erebor, she can sort herself out, and she and the child will be safe while doing so. And should it come to the worst, you can be there quickly to aid her.”

“I take great offense at the accusation that I was careless with the safety of my wife and child!”

It was the second time the human intimated that his queen was in danger inside his halls. It was a charge the Elvenking was growing most tired of hearing. And the Man dared to look at him as though he was an imbecile?

“Something sent her running from your halls, Thranduil! That woman was terrified at that audience today. Don’t tell me you didn’t see that!”

The great elvenking was stunned into silence. He wished to insist that Bard was mistaken.  He’d felt no such terror—he could not say for certain just what he’d felt in the face of Elrond’s party.  The myriad of emotions from Ionien had practically assaulted his senses beginning the moment the elven lord stepped into his presence.  Would he have been able to separate the terror Bard claimed from all the other emotions he was bombarded with?

“You really didn’t see it.”

Bard’s expression softened into something like pity, and Thranduil itched to do violence to the man.

“She’s afraid of something, Thranduil. I’d never seen her so frightened in all the years I’ve known her. If you wish her to come home to you, you should address that problem first.  The rest will sort out on its own.”

It pained the elvenking to admit the man made a sensible suggestion. If Ionien truly was with the dwarves, then he had only to wait for her to experience the pain of separation to know he spoke the truth. He would be better served finding the cause of her flight.  How he was meant to do so was mystifying.

He did know that he would not find the answers lying in his bed. He would have to get to his feet before he could begin any sort of investigation, a feat he wasn’t certain he could yet accomplish. Ionien had slipped something truly powerful into the wine.  She must have meant to buy herself as much time as possible.

What could have frightened her to such an extent? It was not like her to run from something. When something threatened her she was far more likely to chop off its head than to run.  He’d witnessed her do just that to a stray orc that had tried to attack them. She’d lopped off its head with her sword, as though she couldn’t be bothered with fighting it.  That was not a woman who ran in fear.

“What could have frightened her so?”

He attempted to ask her that question directly, but she refused to respond. She pushed herself as hard as it was possible for her to go. 

“I expect it’s something to do with the elves that arrived yesterday.”

“Did she say anything to you?”

Loathe as he was to ask the mortal for help, he would not shrink from doing so. His pride was not the issue.  All that mattered was keeping Ionien and Mellessil safe, and bringing them home. Bard shook his head, looking regretful.  Of course it could not be so easy.

“She said nothing. But she wasn’t afraid in these halls before those foreign elves showed up. I would wager there was someone in that party that she didn’t want to meet.”

He would have to discuss the matter with Elrond. The peredhel would give him grief over his wife’s fleeing, but it couldn’t be helped. He must know if any among the Rivendell part had a history with Ionien that could explain her flight.

As though summoned by the elven king’s thoughts, the Lord of Rivendell appeared in his doorway. Thranduil wished for a moment that he had the power to alter minds, and send the elf lord away.  To allow Elrond to see a moment of weakness was nothing less than folly.

“Forgive my intrusion, old friend. I wished to speak with Ionien, but she was not in the healing ward.”

The elf lord’s expression was innocent, but Thranduil could see the smirk attempting to form. The peredhel was enjoying his predicament.  He knew, or strongly suspected, that Ionien had flown, and was taking great delight in the elven king’s infirmity.

“What can you tell me of Ionien’s parentage, Elrond? I know that she has spent significant time under your roof.”

“I fear I can be of no help to you in that regard. I know only that she is elf-blooded; I know not who that elf might be. She was never overly talkative.”

“She shared nothing with you?”

“Not on that subject. She came to my halls to master healing. She would be far more likely to share such things with you.”

That was unfair. There was no need to remind him that while they may have shared bodies, they’d failed of share the important personal matters.  If the peredhel wished for a fight, Thranduil would give him one.

“Enough arguing,” Bard interrupted before the Elvenking could stir from the bed, “It does no one any good.”

The mortal did have a point. Elrond the good grace to look chagrinned at the rebuke.

“It was not mean as an insult, Thranduil. She truly would be more likely to share her history with you. We spoke of little beyond healing. It is possible that she was more open with my sons. They spent more time together.”

That was so. Thranduil’s memories of their first meetings gave the proof to that assertion. That behavior was in fact why he’d supposed the peredhel would have the answers he sought.

“Where is she? I do need to speak with her.”

“She is escorting my daughter to the mountain, to visit her sister,” Bard supplied before Thranduil could try to think up a lie. The elvenking had to give the mortal credit; his declaration made it sound as though Ionien had simply taken a short trip instead of running off.  It was—given their familial relations—an entirely acceptable reason for his wife’s absence.

“I see. And when do you expect her return?”

“She is likely to spend some days visiting the dwarves,” Thranduil ground out. The Rivendell elf gave him a disbelieving stare.

“Do you think that wise, in the circumstances?”

“I think it wiser than attempting to stop her.”

The great king regretted the pain her attempt to abandon him would cause, but he was resigned to Bard’s suggestion. He would allow nature to run its course so that she might see the truth for herself. He felt it the only course of action left open to him. Once she admitted the truth to herself, however, he would loose his restraint and bring her home.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Ionien was surprised to make her way freely through Mirkwood. Though she’d kept a swift pace through the wood, often carrying Mellessil when the child could not keep up, she knew Thranduil should have woken long before she reached the mountain.  To make her way from elven lands to the dwarf kingdom unmolested by elves was not something she’d expected.

By the time they reached the mountain, Mellessil was once again asleep, practically slung over her mother’s shoulder. The gate to Erebor was closed, but that mattered little to her. It was, after all, nightfall once again.  They’d made excellent time on foot, but an entire day had passed.

“Who goes there?”

The dwarf standing watch was no one that Ionien recognized. Tilda, however, seemed to be familiar, as she called out a greeting and addressed the dwarf by name. Shortly after, the doors were open and they were permitted inside.

The dwarves' halls were darker than the elvenking’s. This mountain was oppressive in a way that Mirkwood was not, despite the evil creatures that roamed the forest.  Was there any natural light in this place? How did Sigrid stand it?

She supposed that during the day it was better. The doors would be open into the main halls, allowing sunlight to filter in. Ionien thought that she even saw small windows cut into the mountain; they looked to be filled with glass.  That must have been done at Sigrid’s urging.

“Tilda! We weren’t expecting you!”

Ionien could not see her eldest granddaughter, and her voice seemed to bounce off the very walls. It was nearly impossible to tell the direction the greeting came from.

“I’ve brought you visitors.”

“Ionien!”

The shriek that followed was near to ear-splitting. Ionien searched for the source and finally saw Sigrid hurrying to them, Fili behind her.  She wasn’t quite running; she was, in fact, moving more slowly than Ionien would expect. The reason for that became apparent when the human drew closer, and Ionien could see the swelling midsection that indicated Sigrid was pregnant. The peredhel soon found herself enveloped in a tight hug.

“I didn’t expect to see you! Da said you’re living with the elves now!”

“That’s what the elf thinks.”

Sigrid’s gaze dropped from Ionien to the child in her arms, and the peredhel shifted uncomfortably. Sigrid had never met Mellessil, but Ionien wanted no awkward questions concerning the child’s parentage.

“Da said you had a child. She’s lovely.”

The longer they stood, the more attention they drew from the dwarves who passed through the hall.   Too many strangers were beginning to show a keen interest in her affairs. Fili, bless him, seemed to understand her discomfort, for his glare sent their audience on their way.

“You must be exhausted from travelling. Come. There are rooms ready for you.”

Sigrid latched onto that idea with enthusiasm, and wrapped an arm around Ionien’s waist, keeping her close as they made their way purposefully through the mountain. The weight of the stone seemed to press in, in a way that Thranduil’s hall never head. How was she expected to stay in so oppressive a place?  Were the walls closing in?  How did Sigrid bear it?

“So dark.”

“It’s not so bad, really. We’ll stay away from the lower levels, and Fili had the builders cut some windows into several rooms.  I couldn’t take the full dark either.”

That was welcome news. It explained the sight of glass in the mountain.  It was good of Fili to make that accommodation for his wife.  Carving out windows where there were no natural openings would have been both time-consuming and costly.  The glass needed for such a venture was not readily found in the mountain.

True to Sigrid’s word, Ionien found herself in a room in the upper levels. It was set out nearly as a dormitory, with several beds lining the walls, but it did have three windows to provide light once the sun rose.  At present the fire in the fireplace would serve that purpose.  Sigrid left them shortly after opening the door, her hand to her mouth.  Ionien suspected the babe was making her ill.  Fili lingered as she put Mellessil into the bed closest to the one she’d claimed for herself.

“I trust you’ll be comfortable.”

“I’m sure we’ll be most comfortable, thank you.”

“It’s good that you’re here. She’s been—it’s not been easy on Sigrid, carrying my child.  It will be good to have another healer about.”

He left before she could question him. His words told her nothing. Was Sigrid simply suffering the trials of a first pregnancy?  Or was she suffering from something more?  A half-dwarven child should cause no special problems for a human.

Ionien decided that she would sit Sigrid down for fa full examination in the morning. Tonight she wanted only to sleep.  She finished tucking her daughter into bed and removed almost all of her weapons before climbing into her own.  Since she’d been old enough to wield it effectively, a dagger always remained nearby while she slept; either on her person or under a pillow. The only exceptions to the centuries-old practice were the nights she’d slept beside Thranduil.

She cursed the elvenking’s name as she struggled to get comfortable in the bed. She’d gotten used to spending the nights in his arms. Her traitorous body rejected the idea of sleeping alone. She simply could not get comfortable, no matter which way she turned. Damn that elf. And damn Elrond’s bringing that murderer to Mirkwood, proving to him that he’d failed to kill her.

_She dreamed of bloodshed. A great battle raged all around her as she walked, almost unaware of it.  Dwarves fought Men of the lake as great creatures filed the sky above, raining fire down on those below.  It seemed the entire mountain was filled with fire from the dragons that attacked indiscriminately.  So many lives lost._

She jerked awake from the touch of a hand to her face, immediately reaching for her weapon. Rational thought kicked in only when Tilda jumped back before the dagger could find its way to freedom from the pillow, and Ionien stood down.

“You know you don’t need that here. Nothing is coming through those gates that Fili doesn’t want to come through.”

“Did you wake me for a reason, Tilda?”

“Apart from whatever nightmare you’re having? It’s morning.  You’ve slept over twelve hours and your daughter is getting worried.”

She was shocked to see that Tilda spoke the truth.   A glance upwards to the windows showed natural light streaming in, proving that it was morning.  She’d slept far longer than she’d expected to.  The second thing she took note of was the fact that she and Tilda were alone in the room.

“Where is Mellessil?”

“She’s having breakfast with Sigrid. I told her I’d come fetch you.”

With that declaration, Tilda hopped off the bed, looking entirely too gleeful at having accomplished her task.

“You might want to wash up before you leave the room. You’re filthy as an orc.”

Ionien was chagrined to realize that Tilda was right. She hadn’t bothered washing before going to bed, and the journey from Mirkwood had not been easy.  She’d no idea what she looked like, but knew it could not be pretty.

A small corner table held a basin and ewer. To Ionien’s pleased surprise the water was comfortably warm. Someone must have put it on the fire while she was asleep.  The soap sitting in its dish of smooth stone was lightly scented; something that Sigrid must have set out for them.

There was no time for a proper bath, but Ionien carefully scrubbed her face and hands, and any bare skin she could see. Using as a mirror the silver tray that had been polished to a shine she removed the bits of twig and leaves that had accumulated in her hair.  Did she look paler than usual? She feared what changes a long time spent with the elves might bring.

A quick rummage through her bag produced the spare set of clothing she’d thought to pack. It had seemed excessive to her Ranger sensibilities, but now she found herself glad of its presence. She would not bring embarrassment to her granddaughter’s table with her appearance.

The rust color of the tunic and surcoat stood out in the grays of the mountain hall, but beyond, in the changing leaves, she would blend in effortlessly. Once she was again on her way, she would not be easily noticed.

Tilda was still waiting for her once she finally decided she was ready. Their journey to the main hall meant they were treated to even more stares from curious dwarves.  Ionien supposed that while humans were more common in the mountain it was still a novelty to find a person dressed as an elf.  Tilda addressed most of the dwarves by name, leaving Ionien to wonder just how much time the girl spent in the mountain.

The chatter that filled the great hall was a far cry from the near silence that characterized most common meals in Mirkwood. The dwarves had not the elves ability to communicate silently, and so were obliged to speak their thoughts aloud. Ionien lamented the lack of quiet, but she very much appreciated the dwarves’ bluntness. Even if some of them said things that made her itch to get her hands around a sword.

“Well if it isn’t Pointy! As if we needed another creature invading dwarrow halls!”

What a most inconvenient time for the Ironfoot to be visiting. Ionien could only hope that Dain’s presence could keep Thranduil away. She shared no love for the dwarf, but Thranduil positively hated him.

“Since they’re not your halls, Dain, I fail to see where you could find it a problem.”

Stunned eyes turned to Tilda, who tucked into a healthy portion of eggs with gusto. Ionien would never have expected such sass to come from her granddaughter’s mouth. Bain, perhaps, but no either of the girls. She was quite proud.

“And how would you feel if the elves invaded your lands then, missy?!”

“I’m fairly certain that an invasion requires more than a single person. And since the elves helped to keep my land safe from the orcs just as the dwarves did, if they came to Dale they would be welcomed.”

An uncomfortable silence descended at that statement. No one wished to be reminded that they’d had to work with Men and Elves to repel the attack ten years before, or that without that aid the mountain would never be reclaimed. Dwarves were almost as proud as elves.

“Sounds as if we could all take a lesson from the girl,” Ionien heard Fili mutter before he raised his voice to address the room. “This woman and her child are my guests! Anyone choosing to disregard that will answer to me!”

Several dwarves grumbled their complaint, but Ionien knew they would go no further. No one would dare to go against the word of their king.  Fili would answer any insult in combat, if she let it get to him without answering it herself.  It was fortunate that Mellessil was ignorant of the tension that settled among many.  She would be happy exploring Erebor with Tilda at her side.

“How often are you ill?” Ionien questioned Sigrid the moment she got the human woman into a private room. They weren’t quite alone; while she’d managed to scare Fili away, Dís refused to be threatened from her daughter-by-marriage’s side. Ionien found herself liking the dwarrodam for her loyalty.

“Every day. Sometimes four or five times a day.”

“What the lass takes in at meals she brings right back up later, “Dís interjected, clucking in sympathy. “It’s not usual among Dwarrow to be so sick this far in.”

It was not typical of human pregnancies either. A fact Sigrid seemed to be aware of, judging by her expression.  Ionien wished she could offer some comfort, but it was too soon to make any sort of promises.  She’d barely begun her examination.

“And do you still feel the child moving regularly?”

“It feels as though this babe is trying to kick its way out of my stomach.”

“That’s very good news. Such vigor is a sign of a healthy child.  You’ve notice nothing unusual?  No spotting or discharge?”

She was clinical in her questioning, but Sigrid grew red-faced nonetheless. Did the girl forget that she was surrounded by women who’d undergone the same things? After living so long among dwarves, Ionien was surprised her granddaughter was still so modest.

“None.”

“Good. I’ll speak to the healer.  This late in the pregnancy it should be safe to give you something for the sickness.”

She urged Sigrid to lie down on the bed to continue the examination. The girl blushed as he long skirts were shoved out of the way to expose her lower body.  The physical examination was brief, but Ionien could almost feel Sigrid’s mortification throughout.

“I think it unlikely that you need to fear complications in the delivery. The child will almost certainly be smaller than a full human babe, and you’ve the hips for it.  I’ll tell Fili that he can rest easily; if you’ve made it this far with little trouble, something terrible would have to happen to cause problems now.”

There was little more encouragement to be given. Childbirth was dangerous no matter what race the mother, but Sigrid was strong, and came from a line of strong women.  She was healthy, and active, and she’d never had a sickly constitution.  She had everything in her favor for a safe delivery.  If need be, Ionien would be sure to be on hand for the birth.  If nothing else, her presence might calm the anxious husband.

“I may have been wrong about you.”

The words came from Fili’s mother, and Ionien looked to her in surprise. Coming from Dís, that was high praise indeed.  Had the sun risen in the west? She’d never thought to hear such words from the dwarrowdam.  Sigrid looked astonished as well.

“I owe you my son’s life. And you’re aiding my near-daughter. I must admit you’re not exactly the hell-spawned fairy I’d expected you to be.”

“Thank you. You’re not half so thick-headed as I’d expect one of Durin’s line to be.  You’re a sight more intelligent than the Ironfoot.”

A startled laugh and hesitant smile—perhaps there were worse ways to begin a truce. Ionien felt a stir of amusement in her mind that she knew did not come from her.  She’d wondered when Thranduil would reach out and attempt to impose his will on her.  She wondered how much time she had before he reached the mountain. The idea of leaving made her flesh crawl, no doubt a result of the bond, but she would continue on her way and deal with the pain rather than go back and face that golden monster.

_“You must tell me what frightens you so, meleth. I cannot address the problem until you reveal it.”_

The tone was entreating, but Ionien gently pushed him from her thoughts. If she allowed him to continue, it would only make leaving more difficult. She was successful, but she could feel a dull throb settling in her head. So.  It was already beginning.

_“It will only grow worse, the longer you attempt to deny us. Come home, Ionien.”_

_“I will not.”_

_“Will you be so cruel to your own child, depriving her of her father and her people?”_

That could not be correct. Mellessil’s people were the Rangers she’d spent her life with.  The elves of Mirkwood were not her people. 

Ionien mentally slammed the door closed on Thranduil’s entreaties, as an actual door closed on Dís’ departure, leaving her alone with her granddaughter. Sigrid looked slightly green as she sat up, so Ionien set to rummaging through the dwarf healers’ stores for something to aid the nausea.

“Da told us about Feredir,” Sigrid offered quietly as she filled a cup with water and sprinkled it generously with herbs, “I’m so sorry.”

“As am I. Now, drink the entire cup.”

She handed Sigrid the cup and watched the human drain it all obediently. The grimace on her face was unsurprising.  The herbs that aided in nausea were not pleasant tasting.

“Your daughter looks more like the elvenking than Feredir. Is she really his?”

“Why would you ask such a thing?”

“Fili is terrified that Thranduil will bring an army to his door to reclaim the two of you.”

“It matters not who Mellessil’s father is. She is MY daughter, and nothing more needs be known.  Besides, Thranduil would not bring an army.  He would not think he’d need to.”

That seemed to be answer enough to the question in Sigrid’s mind.

“Did Feredir know that she wasn’t his?”

“He knew. Once I knew for certain, I did not lie to him.  It did not matter; he still accepted her as his own.”

“He was a good man.”

Indeed, he was.

“He was the best of Men.”

A moment of silence followed that declaration, and Ionien hoped that they’d finished the conversation.

“But the elfking—how does that even happen?”

Ionien stilled for the just the briefest moment. _A pair of lips, gentle but insistent in their questioning, and her own finally yielding. Arms of steel holding her close as lethal hands carefully explored her body as freely as hers did his.  Words that meant everything and nothing exchanged as they rid each other of their clothing._

“A story for another time. Off with you now.”

 


	11. Absence

_She found herself in a familiar courtyard.  The lone occupant was seated on the bench, making it look more like a throne with his regal posture.  She did not need to see his face to know that the man in front of her was Thranduil.  She felt more at ease simply from being in his presence._

_“Do you stalk my dreams now, because you have not succeeded in ordering me back to you?”_

_He turned at her question, the surprise on his face genuine._

_“This is not my doing, meleth.  Perhaps Eru saw fit to bring us together again.”_

_He extended a hand to her and she accepted, seeing little option.  If Thranduil did not initiate this meeting, she doubted that the source of it would release them so easily until they satisfied its wishes.  She allowed him to tug her closer until she was sitting beside him on the bench. He drank in her appearance, as a man in a desert drinks in water._

_“You are suffering.”_

_“No more than I expected.”_

_He looked rather the worse for wear himself. How long since he properly slept?  Was Andrathon not ensuring his king took care of himself?_

_“Your suffering is unnecessary.  You know that I would never harm you, or allow anyone else to do so.”_

_What a lovely fiction. If Thranduil knew all of her, he would swing the killing blow himself.  He wouldn’t be able to help it._

_‘You distrust me.”_

_“I have no reason to trust you.”_

_“You have every reason to trust me!”_

_“You would keep me prisoner here, and deny me the only thing I’ve ever asked of you!”_

_The harsh words Ionien was certain Thranduil intended to say died on his lips.   With a sigh that was visible in the chill air he pulled her closer, tucking her against him.  She would be lying if she said the position wasn’t comforting.  She closed her eyes and leaned into his warmth, as the worst of her headache faded from the contact._

_“You must understand, Ionien,” the elvenking began after a moment’s silence.  What explanation could he possibly think would justify his actions?_

_“I know the pain that comes from attempting to shatter a bond.  You have felt this pain for only a few days.  You are not equipped to endure it for centuries, or millennia.”_

_Damn him, but he was right in that.  What she was enduring now, she knew she wouldn’t be able to keep up for centuries.  If it would only fade, she would be fine. She turned away from the earnest tone, looking over the courtyard.   She did love this place, of all the locations in the Halls.  A light layer of frost covered the plants, the only place exposed to the elements apart from the fields. The sun could reach this place.  She wondered if this want the reason her dream chose to bring her here._

_“I cannot bear your suffering, Meleth nin.  Come home to me.”_

_In that quiet moment, she wished to.  She wished to feel his embrace in the waking world. But she could not return to his halls, and she would not surrender her free will; not even to feel treasured by the great Thranduil._

_“I do not ask you to give up your free will, Ionien.  I desire a partner; an equal, not a mindless puppet.  I want your view on things, even when it doesn’t coincide with my own.”_

_She’d heard similar declarations from him before.  She could detect no lie in him, so why did she have such trouble believing his words?_

_“Come home.”_

_She didn’t know when he’d begun playing with her hair, but she felt the loss when he stopped.  She must have made some noise of protest, for he picked up again. She could practically feel the smug smile that she was certain Thranduil wore._

_“Come home, meleth.”_

_Ionien struggled to muster some self-control, and shrug his hand away.  No matter how entreating, she could not return._

_“I cannot.”_

_“Do not force me to come after you, Ionien. I cannot sit by and do nothing while you suffer.”_

_“Something is coming.  I will not leave the mortals to face it alone.”_

_“What is coming?”_

“Emel!”

Mellessil’s shaking woke Ionien from her dream.  She was glad to leave it before Thranduil could insist on answers that she didn’t have to give. Something was coming—she could feel it in the wind—but what it was she did not know.

“What is it?”

“It’s snowing outside!”

The child waited impatiently through her mother’s dressing.  Ionien quickly slipped into the heavy coat she’d been provided, still secretly amused by just how short it was.  What should have fallen to her ankles barely reached her knees.  Still, it kept out the cold, so it served its purpose.

They were not the only ones to venture out to see the snowfall. The first snowfall of the season seemed to be an event among the dwarves, just as it was to the humans.  The younger dwarves were playing in the falling white, and Mellessil ran to join two dwarf children.  Ionien watched her play, finding a moment of contentment in the scene.

Several of the adult appeared less enthralled with the weather. The snow had come early in the season. The people of Dale likely hadn’t gathered in all of their crops.  Damaged crops meant that Dale would have less food to trade; food the dwarves would depend on.  For those who paid attention to such things, the snow was cause for concern.

Ionien found less cause for joy in the snow than her daughter, or her granddaughter. The snow was a sign that she should have moved on days before.  Her reluctance to go so far from the elvenking, as well as the pain that had become her constant companion, conspired in her mind to delay her going. Soon it would be too late to go.  She could not take Mellessil north when the snows were setting in.

“I’d expected you to be gone before now,” Dís commented as she sat beside the peredhel. Ionien looked to the dwarrodam, who was watching the children playing. She was surprised by her company; Dís had not sought her out once in all the days she’d been in Erebor. She idly wondered if the woman was trying to chase her off; if she saw some threat to her position in Ionien’s presence, the peredhel wouldn’t put it past the dwarf to try to do so. After all, the dwarrowdam had an unchallenged claim on the loyalty of both her son and his wife before Ionien’s arrival.  If Dís was the type to thirst after power, she would not take kindly to an interloper with a stronger claim to the loyalty of those she sought to control. Ionien resolved to give the dwarrowdam the benefit of the doubt; she did not know the princess well enough to be so suspicious.  Dís was not her brother.

“Where would you expect me to go?” she asked curiously.

“Back to the sprite that’s chafin’ to come after ye.  Fili expects to see him stormin’ the mountain any day.”

She wondered how Dís knew of Thranduil.  Fili or Sigrid must have told her.  Snow started landing on the dwarrowdam’s beard, and Ionien stifled a smile as the flakes accumulated.  Dís herself seemed not to notice it.

“He’s pretty enough, if you like that smooth-faced appearance, but he’s an utter bastard. I’d expected you to have more sense than to take up with that fairy.”

“It wasn’t an active decision.”

“I’ve never known Thranduil Oropherion to be the type to disregard a woman’s refusal.  I find it difficult to believe he could be so changed. And unless you tripped and he caught you with his man-parts, you canna say it was an accident.”

The look the dwarrowdam gave her was shrewd.  Dís had the right of it.  Thranduil, for all his faults (and they were many) was not one to physically force himself on a woman. It would almost be easier on her conscience if that was the case, but it was not, and she would not make such an accusation. It was one of the vilest crimes a person could commit, and whatever he’d done to her, he did not deserve to be so maligned.

“No.  I do not accuse him of that.  I was fully complicit, but I did not know the ramifications.  We neither of us spoke of the things that mattered.”

“Ah.  Ye gave yerself to him, unaware that taking him to your bed would create something permanent. That’s a sight more understandable than your bad taste.  Though I’m wondering how it is you dinna know your business there.”

“I believed him still tied to his wife.”

Dís snorted.

“Must’ve been a nasty shock to discover he wasn’t.”

“I did not stay to find out.”

The look she received from Dís at that declaration was one of almost respect.  Ionien found her curiosity piqued at that. Was it some strange mark of honor for a dwarf to abandon one’s spouse—as the elves would see consider her actions?  She’d thought that dwarves prized fidelity. If she discovered otherwise, she would have to have a very frank discussion with Fili.  She would not tolerate any sort of infidelity to her granddaughter.

“You consider that a good thing?”

“I consider anything that knocks Thranduil from that high throne of his to be a wonderful thing.  I’d love to have seen his face when he discovered you gone!”

“You truly hate the elvenking, don’t you?”

“No.”

Ionien was surprised by the emphatic shake of the head that accompanied that declaration.

“I can’t hate the man for refusing to throw away the lives of his people on a lost cause, unlike my cousins or brothers did.  And I can’t hate him for his policies: even I must admit that they’ve been sound.   But I’ve spent time enough with the Sprite to know that he’s one of the most ill-tempered creatures I’ve ever set eyes on, and what he needs most in this world is someone not taken in with his grand self.  I think you’ll do nicely, once you finally forgive yourself for whatever weighs you down with such guilt.”

“I was already married to another,” Ionien shocked herself by speaking.  “I betrayed a good man in lying with the elvenking.  Feredir was with me when I fell into the grasp of Thranduil again, and it was during our escape that he died.”

“Ah, lass.  I know what it is to lose a good man, and I’m sorry for it.”

“He died because of me.    I loved him, so very much, and I killed him.”

“No, lassie.   You didn’t kill him.   You canna hold yourself responsible for anyone else’s actions.  You made choices; some wise, some not so wise, and you must live with those.  But that is enough to recover from, and that is all you can ask of yourself.  You canna take on all the hurts of the world.  It’s too much, even for you.”

That little speech concluded, Dís stood to her feet, shaking the accumulated snow from her beard, and then dusting off her clothes.  Ionien was left to stare after her, open-mouthed.  The dwarf woman was more perceptive than she’d given her credit for.

The headache that always hovered just at the edge of her consciousness threatened to take over completely.  She’d told Thranduil the truth when she said the pain was what she’d expected, but she’d greatly underestimate its severity.  She wasn’t certain that she would be capable of fleeing the mountain in her current condition.

_“You must come home, Ionien.  I can ease your pain.  Do not force yourself to suffer needlessly.”_

She refused to answer Thranduil as she watched Mellessil play.  The cold was helping to ease the pain.  Perhaps she would spend more time outside instead of staying inside the mountain.

_“Prolonging the inevitable will serve you no good.  This pain will cease only when you stop trying to shatter our bond.”_

_“Leave me alone, Thranduil.”_

To her shock, the elvenking very nearly obeyed her order.   He withdrew until she could just barely detect his presence in a tiny corner of her mind.   It seemed pointless to try to force him out completely; she was uncertain that their bond would allow it.

“Emel?  Are you alright?”

Ionien quietly cursed the concern etched in Mellessil’s face and question.  She could only imagine how she must look to cause the child to worry.

“I’m fine, Mellessil.  But I think it’s time to go back inside before you freeze.”

She didn’t know how long she’d been sitting, practically unaware, but many of the dwarflings were being ushered inside by their parents.  She quickly herded her child into the mountain ahead of her.  Something foul approached on the wind.  She could smell it.  It surprised her that none of the dwarves seemed to know it.  Did none of them pay attention to the signs?

“Emel?” 

“Inside, I said.”

They made their way through the dwarves who were taking their time travelling the halls.  Ionien wanted her daughter as far from the coming danger as possible, even if she couldn’t define it. If only she knew what form it would take, she could determine the safest place to send her daughter.

“When are we going back to Ada Thranduil?”

The question from the child almost froze her in her tracks.  She wished to go back?  Ionien felt almost ill.  It was not her wish to keep father and daughter separated, it was an unfortunate consequence of the action she was forced to take.  She felt badly enough about it when it was just Thranduil angry over the separation.  How could she keep them apart now that Mellessil was asking to return? Had the child abandoned the memory of Feredir so quickly?

_“Would you prefer her to sink in grief, as you did, than to accept his loss and heal?”_

It was no question that came from the elvenking, it was pure accusation.  Thranduil was angry that she did not follow her daughter’s example and abandon her husband’s memory. 

_“I would not have you abandon anything, Ionien, but I would have you accept, and heal.  You cannot live in the past, with the memory of a dead man.”_

It was more prudent to ignore him than to get into yet another argument with the lout.  Instead she followed her daughter, who’d found Tilda.  Her youngest granddaughter had the mischievous look she often wore when planning something that Bard wouldn’t approve of.  What trouble was the girl searching for now? 

“We’re going to Dale for the day!”  Tilda announced happily as soon as she saw the peredhel.  “There’s a delivery of metal to get out before the snows really set in, so we’re taking the wagon!”

Ionien wondered who this ‘we’ that Tilda spoke of included.  She didn’t think that too many dwarves would be eager to leave their precious mountain in this cold and snow for a trip to the human city.   Her experience with dwarves was limited, but those she’d met didn’t take well to the cold.  They preferred to be underground in the warmth of their forges.

She received her answer when they reached the wagons and she saw Sigrid and a dwarrowdam she didn’t recognize seated on the wagon bench.   What did Sigrid mean, going off in this weather so far along in her pregnancy?   Didn’t the healer warn her that an accident might very well cause her to go into labor early?

“Sigrid, you—“

“Don’t!  I’ve already heard it from Fili, and I’m going!”

Ah.  If Ionien read her granddaughter aright, something had happened between her and Fili this morning.  Something that was serious enough to set the girl on a trip that she knew could potentially be dangerous. Knowing the males of the dwarf race, really all males in general, Fili had done or said something supremely stupid.  Even if Fili had been completely reasonable, he should know by now what would be likely to upset his heavily pregnant wife, and he should know better than to do it.  

Well, she wasn’t going to waste time arguing with Sigrid.  She would keep a close watch over her while they were away, but she wouldn’t try to prevent her going.  If there’d been a fight with Fili, it would be good for Sigrid to spend some time away.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Thranduil stalked his halls, itching to ride over to that mountain and drag his wife home.  He could feel that the separation was hurting her, and he knew that she wished to be near him.  Why must the woman be so stubborn?

“I am surprised that you have not already gone to retrieve her, Thranduil.”

The elvenking swore on discovering Elrond only steps behind him.  He’d not realized he passed so closely to his guest’s rooms, and judging by Elrond’s amused expression his soft muttering had been plainly heard. The fiction that Ionien was simply visiting her human relations had not lasted long in the face of the healer’s impressive hearing.

“I hoped a few days would convince her to return of her own volition.  Was she this much trouble in Rivendell?”

“More.  When she was not practicing the healing arts, she was off getting into whatever trouble my sons found. I do not believe she was ever able to settle in one place for long.”

Even Galadriel in her riddles was not so difficult for Thranduil to understand.  Was the ellon attempting to warn him of the difficulty he faced, or was he warning him to release his wife?  Thranduil would prefer Galadriel’s presence to that of the Rivendell party, even if it meant suffering the presence of Celeborn.

“Has the King of Dale heard nothing from his daughter?”

They had both of them expected the human girl to keep in contact with her father, and in the first week she had done so.  But it had been several days since any missives had come from Erebor, and soon enough Bard would end his visit and return home.  Thranduil would have no news of Ionien once the human departed.

“Her last letter mentioned the stubbornness of half-elves, but nothing to say that a return was in the future.”

“If she has not yet left the mountain, she will return to you. She would not risk travel in winter, not with her daughter.”

That much was true.  Ionien would do nothing to put Mellessil in danger. So long as she remained in Erebor, he had time to persuade her to return home.

He tried to see his halls as Ionien did. He could not see what made her so ill-at-ease, no matter how he tried.  He knew that many of the humans who passed through his doors had difficulty being underground, but Ionien was not human.   It was only a mountain, carved into a place where all his people could find sanctuary.   The darkness that permeated the forest, the evil that his soldiers fought so hard to repel, could not reach them here. The mountain kept the halls cool and protected, and millennia occupying the space had turned what had been cold and impersonal into something that could rival Imladris for simple beauty.  His halls were nothing like the dank caves that the creatures of the darkness chose to occupy, yet Ionien seemed to suffocate.

To him, the low light and smooth stone walls were soothing, but his wife wasn’t easy anywhere within his domain.   Not even in their chambers, which he’d done all he could think of to make a haven for her.  No longer was the room his singular domain; everything she’d possessed had found a place among his own things. He could no longer be certain that an article of clothing he pulled would be his, as the despised gowns were mixed in with his own robes.  He’d only barely managed to keep her jewels separate from his own. Even those items she’d left behind when she’d fled those years ago were mingled in the articles on shelves and against the walls.  He would admit to no one that once she’d left he’d collected everything he’d known her to touch and tucked it all away into the privacy of his room. 

 “I intend to ride for Dale when Bard returns.  I am most curious to see this city for myself.  Perhaps you should accompany us.”

“I will consider it.”

Thranduil thought he managed to hide his surprise rather well.  The peredhel spoke of leaving already, when he’d half expected that he would be forced to expel the Rivendell party from his halls by force. He’d not visited Dale since the war ended.   Being in Dale would put him closer to his wife, should she need him.  She’d said something was coming, something she would not leave the mortals to face.  It could not be something good.

“Have you seen something that gives you concern?”

The Lord of Rivendell was possessed of the gift of foresight. Such a gift would be a most fortunate thing to possess.  Had Thranduil the same abilities, he might have been able to prevent much of what befell his people. He could not say why it had only just occurred to him to ask the peredhel if he’d seen anything. 

“I do not know what I have seen,” was Elrond’s concerned reply, “There is too little that makes sense in what visions I receive.”

“But you have seen something,” Thranduil persisted.  If there was a threat to Ionien, he must know it.

“I have seen a great fight, but only that.  I know not if it has aught to do with Ionien. It could relate to any number of things, now that we know that Sauron lives.”

A great fight.  Had they not had enough of such? His neighbors were still recovering from the last great fight.  His people deserved a time of peace, but he knew that peace would elude them for some time. He’d long known what Elrond and Galadriel only recently discovered. His woods were evidence that Sauron’s evil had never completely left.

“I told you long ago that his evil still stalked my forest.  The humans now call this place Mirkwood.  Why should you be surprised that Sauron did not die?”

“I have long been impressed that you’ve managed to keep your borders safe, so near as you are to the trouble.”

“My people are worth the effort,” Thranduil answered simply.  Elrond had his people in Rivendell, so he would understand the sentiment.  The elven lord could have been a king in his own right, had the elves of Rivendell ever thought to offer him a crown. He knew well the responsibility for so many lives. Keeping his people safe was worth any price, even his own blood, and his soldiers’ dedication of their lives proved their agreement.

“You have done well for your people, Thranduil.   Do not doubt yourself, even if others question it.”

Coming from Elrond, the words were high praise. Thranduil knew himself enough to acknowledge that effect of such recognition to his vanity.  Too often he and the lord of Rivendell were at odds, so to hear Elrond commend his efforts was a rare thing.

 


	12. Disaster

Dale was familiar in the way that faded dreams are familiar.  The city had undergone a great change in the years since her last visit, bringing it closer to what it once was, yet to Ionien it was a walk through a long-forgotten memory.

The great hall was now a proper royal quarters instead of a makeshift healing ward, and the market square no longer resembled a war zone.  The peredhel saw none of these changes, however. She saw through the new constructions into the city as it was before Smaug ever arrived.  She walked through memories, facing phantoms of people long since dead.

Idly, she wondered how different things would be if she’d met Thranduil then, instead of so recently. If there had been no great catalyst that compelled him to seek her out, would she ever have gone into his kingdom?  Would they have bonded?  She’d been unattached when she first came to Dale; would the guilt that still threatened to overwhelm her be gone, in that other life?

She was given a wide berth as she wandered.  The people she passed seemed not to wish to get too close to her.  Did she truly appear so alien to those she’d been acquainted with only a decade ago? Or had the rumors of her time with the elves put people in fear of Thranduil?

Her daughter and grandchildren wandered the market square.  It was gratifying to see so many artisans setting up shop.  It was a good sign that the city prospered.  While nothing to the elven halls so recently vacated, it was rare that Mellessil was able to visit a human city, and she was thoroughly enjoying herself.

One stall contained pinwheels of brightly colored paper, and the child was drawn to the colorful display.  Such paper was costly and rare; such a toy would be available only to the children of the wealthy.  If she wasn’t mistaken, she also saw kites in the stall.  It he been years since she’d seen the contraptions.  It was unfortunate there was no wind, or they could set one to flight.  Ionien could only imagine her child’s expression at the sight.

Bain lingered at the stall selling sweetbreads, and she smiled to see him leaning against a post to chat with a young woman behind the counter.  The slight flush to his cheeks told her that the conversation was not strictly business.  Good.  Perhaps he was finally looking to select a wife and settle down.

Sigrid seemed to notice that Bain was in no hurry as well, for she took a seat on a bench, rubbing her swollen stomach.  Ionien could discern no hostility in the blatant looks the passersby gave her granddaughter, but she still moved to sit protectively by her side.

“I’ve become something of a curiosity to the people since I married Fili.  Especially to the newcomers.”

“I suppose a human marrying a dwarf is something of a novelty. Are you still in pain?”

Sigrid nodded, inhaling shallowly.

“The little one isn’t content unless he’s moving.  Did you have such trouble with your children?”

“With your mother, yes.  Not with Mellessil.”

Centuries lay between the births of Estswith and her previous children.  Ionien did not consider her memory reliable enough to judge those earlier pregnancies.  But she did remember quite well the months she carried Estswith.  She could sympathize with Sigrid’s plight. 

“She’s not very like you, is she?”

They both looked to the younger children.  Tilda had persuaded Mellessil into some new game, and they were happily darting between market stalls, Mellessil squealing in delight.

“No,” Ionien murmured, “no, she’s not like me at all.”

She liked to think that Mellessil was what she would have been if her life had turned out differently.  If she had not been hunted her entire life, always having to look over her shoulder.  She wished to believe that she could have been as innocent as her daughter, if life had been kinder. 

“Did Feredir ever mind that Mellessil wasn’t his child?”

Ionien’s attention snapped back to her eldest granddaughter.

“She’s his child in every way that matters!”

“Except for what some would say is the most important way.”

There was no criticism in Sigrid’s tone, which deflated Ionien’s temper.

“I believed Feredir to be the father.  How could a single night with another accomplish what years with my husband could not? It was only after she came, so early, and yet so perfectly formed, that I knew the truth.”

It was the first time she’d ever admitted aloud that Mellessil was Thranduil’s.  And still she could not bring herself to make that simple statement.  To speak those words……she could not do it.  It would only strengthen the claim he sought to enforce.

“And he never……?”

“It mattered not to him; he accepted her as his own. She was his daughter.”

Fresh grief accompanied that declaration, but Ionien attempted to focus on Sigrid.  Something troubled the girl, and she could not determine what.  She thought it most unlikely that Sigrid was preparing to confess her own infidelity, so she wondered at the girl’s line of questioning.

“Fili doesn’t believe that he’ll make a good father,” Sigrid finally admitted, “It’s been causing problems.”

“That’s preposterous!”

“He was young when he Da died. He says he’s not had a good example to show him how to be one. And he’s afraid I’ll die and leave him alone with a child.”

Considering that her own mother had died in childbirth, Sigrid’s concerns were not entirely unfounded.  Ionien was no fool; she could see plainly that Sigrid shared Fili’s worry that she wouldn’t survive the birth.  She stood by her previous opinion: Sigrid was strong and healthy, and unlikely to share her mother’s fate. She would see to it that she was there for Sigrid’s delivery, as she’d wished to be for Estswith’s. Nothing would happen to Sigrid or the babe, if it was within her power to prevent it.

“I know that Fili will be a good father.  He works so hard for his people.  I know he’ll do the same for his child.  I just want him to think so too.”

“That will come with time. When he has practice and experience, the confidence will come.  As it will with you.  By your second child I would wager that you will both be settled parents.”

Sigrid looked almost ill at mention of a second pregnancy, which Ionien privately found amusing.  Her experience with dwarves might be limited, but surely Sigrid had noticed that most dwarves had a number of offspring? Multiple children would be expected of Fili, as he was king.  It would never do for the king to have only one heir to his throne.

“What will you do when Thranduil comes?”

“Such a question. Where do you get the idea that he will come?”

“He’s no fool.  He’ll know that you didn’t leave, and he’ll come when he gets tired of waiting.”

The truth of that statement would not be ignored.  Time was running out until the elven king decided he’d had enough.  Ionien knew that she’d missed her opportunity to leave and put some distance between them.  She silenced the tiny part of her that rejoiced in that fact.

“You should worry more about your husband.  He’ll not take to waiting either.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

The flush on the human girl’s face, and her inability to meet Ionien’s eyes, gave the lie to the words.

“You didn’t come to Dale for just the day.  If you’d planned to go back to the mountain tonight you’d have pushed for our leaving long before now.  Fili isn’t likely to wait for you to decide to come home.  I expect that you have two days at most before he comes.”

“It’s a race, then, to see who comes first: elf or dwarf.”

Sigrid was likely right.  Ionien expected that she had only a few days before Thranduil decided he had done with waiting. The elven king would not sit idly by until the winter passed and she could make her escape.  Her days of freedom were fading quickly.

The fresh snowfall was beginning to drive the citizens of Dale from the market. It was growing colder, and the snow was coming down more quickly, a sign that a more severe storm was on its way. They would not be attempting to return to Erebor; not until the weather broke.

“I suppose it is time to take shelter.”

It was with regret that Ionien abandoned her perch and called for the children to join her.  She did not like the idea of spending the night in the great hall, where there would be many humans pressing in around her.  She wished for the relative solitude that was found on the road.

 Bain joined them with little fuss, as the stall had closed because of the snow and the young lady left for the day. Tilda and Mellessil were more difficult to collect.  Sleds that were used to haul goods in winter weather had been commandeered by some of the young people in the city, and were being put to use for recreation.  It took some effort to track the girls down and herd them to the hall.  By the time they reached it, effort had to be put into walking through the still-falling snow, though Ionien and Mellessil practically skated across it, drawing envious looks from many.

Once inside they were direct to what Ionien was assured by a housekeeper were the finest guest rooms available.  The great hall was considerably smaller than Thranduil’s great hall, so the family rooms took up an entire section of the building.  The hall was much improved from the last time Ionien occupied it.  Of course patching the walls and ceilings would be one of the first repairs made as the city was rebuilt, but more than that, it looked as though efforts had been made at remodeling.  She felt certain that she room was directed to had not existed before the remodeling began.  If memory served, this entire half of the building had been storage facilities in another life.  They’d been exposed to the elements, completely uninhabitable.

The first order of business was to get her child dried off.  The wool cloak Mellessil wore might keep her warm, but it was quickly soaking through.  It needed to hang dry.  Luckily someone possessed the forethought to start a fire, so the room was already warm.  Her bags had been delivered, and she rummaged through the one that contained her daughter’s few possessions until she found clean clothes.  It took only a few minutes to get Mellessil dried and changed, and she finally looked to herself.

_Fire spread throughout the city.  Flame engulfed everything capable of burning. The sky was blackened by smoke._

“Emel?”

She was snapped from her vision by the light touch of her daughter’s hand on her arm.

“Emel?”

“I’m fine.”

She quickly changed into the tunic and leathers she’d brought from Mirkwood.  Whatever she’d seen was fast approaching.  She could not afford to be ill-prepared.

Once she was ready they made their way to the main hall, where the others would gather.  It was near enough to dinner that servants were starting to bring out trenchers of food. If Bard was worried that the early snows would affect the town’s food supply, Ionien saw no evidence of it.  At the moment there was no sign of the rationing that would be put in motion if it proved to be an especially hard winter.

Tilda and Sigrid were already seated with Bain at the head table, helping themselves to food.  Ionien tugged Mellessil in that direction and wrangled her into a seat.  Her daughter was finding too many distractions to keep her mind on one task.  At least the food was not so foreign to the child.  Getting her to eat among the elves and dwarves had been something of a challenge.

It was reassuring to see that despite the obvious respect shown the family, there was still an air of informality between the Bowman’s children and the rest of Dale. Several of the gathered crowd approached the table to speak with one of them, exchanging stories of work and family. This was not the relationship the people had with the Master when they lived in Lake Town. It gladdened her heart to see that these people genuinely cared for each other.

As the late afternoon progressed into evening, more people filled the hall. Ionien was almost certain that the girl Bain had seemed smitten with had managed to join the crowd.  It would appear that Bard had made a practice of opening the hall to the people in bad weather.  Either that, or Bain had instigated it.  The storm was finally lessening, but the snow continued to fall.  Ionien was surprised when someone produced a stringed instrument and began playing, but none of the children seemed surprised. Mellessil clapped in delight when a trio joined the musician in signing. Their songs were much livelier than the songs that were heard in the elven halls. They were well-known songs, as nearly everyone joined in the singing.

Later, Ionien would never be sure just how much time had passed so pleasantly before the outside world crashed in in the form of Alfrid Lickspittle and his goons.  The doors to the hall crashed open as the man stormed in, his lackeys behind him.  It strained credulity to think that even Alfrid could be so stupid as to travel from Lake Town in this weather.  It was a trek on a dry and sunny day.

“Alfrid. What brings you to Dale?” Bain asked after a long silence.  The so-called Master of Lake Town sneered at the question.

“You know why I’ve come. Bard has dragged this out too long already, and I don’t mean to let it go on any longer.”

“You already had your answer, Alfrid.  Tilda said no.”

 “Then it is your duty to make her reconsider.  You people owe Lake Town, and for too many years you’ve been hoarding all the gold the dwarves gave for yourselves!”

She couldn’t tell precisely who it was, but either Sigrid or Tilda groaned audibly.  It sounded as though this was an argument Alfrid had made before.

“Alfrid, you’ve been told before that if you think you have a dispute with the gold distribution you need to take it up with the dwarves.  What gold we have is the gold given to Dale, there’s not a coin of it that you’re entitled to.”

“Dale was an empty ruin before that battle!  It was the people of Lake Town that fought with the dwarves, so the gold belongs to Lake Town. And you’ve brushed us aside for the last time!”

“That you think you’re owed anything is rich, Alfrid.  Considering that you didn’t even stay to fight, but ran like the coward you are!  Or are you forgetting that we met you running from the battle, attempting to steal coins that belonged to the people of Dale?”

Ionien interrupted the argument between Alfrid and Bain when it looked like it might come to blows.  She had no love for Alfrid Lickspittle, but if this meeting took a worse turn, the people of Lake Town might suffer for it.  At least some of them were innocent people; they weren’t all crooks like Alfrid.

“Enough!  You’ve had your answer, Alfrid.  It’s not going to change.  Since you’ve no other business here it would be wise to return to your town.”

“This doesn’t concern you, Pointy!”

When Alfrid actually leaned across the table Ionien bit back a sigh.  When one of his lackeys attempted to come round behind them she stood up.  She’d had quite enough of Alfrid’s attempts at intimidation, and if some goon dared lay a hand on Tilda he would lose it.

“Anything to do with the Bowman or his children concerns me, Alfrid. Do not make the mistake of thinking otherwise.”

Her dagger flew at the head of the man whose attempts to approach stealthily failed, and it only barely missed drawing blood.  Another knife appeared in her hand and she pointed it at Alfrid.  At her actions, the men in the hall drew what weapons they had, ready to fight.  

“You’re making a big mistake, girlie,” Alfrid directed at Tilda.  That girl looked at him as if she would throw a punch herself if he drew any closer.

“Whatever you think you’re doing, Alfrid, you’d best reconsider.”

“I’ll no longer sit by while Dale keeps everything that should be mine!”

“When have I ever been yours?!”

“Yours?”  Ionien chose for the moment to ignore Tilda’s incredulous cry, “I thought that you were here on behalf of Lake Town, not yourself.”

For a moment Alfrid froze, caught in his lie.  Ionien couldn’t say that she was surprised.  She had never known of the man to do anything that wasn’t for his own gain. She had no expectation that anything she said at the moment would change Alfrid’s mind, but she rather hoped that it might make some of his lackeys reconsider their support.  If any of them were there for the town, and not whatever they thought they would gain from him, they would hopefully remove themselves from his following.   She didn’t wish for bloodshed in Bard’s hall, nor in front of her daughter.

“I am the Master of Lake Town!  All of Lake Town is mine, and you’d best remember it!”

“Not for long, if you continue these threats of yours.”

She stayed calm in the face of the man’s increasing anger.  She would not stoop to his level in this fight.   She had no need to.

A thunderous shaking interrupted them, and Ionien went still.  She knew that noise.  It was the impact of something very large landing just outside their immediate area. The roar that followed she knew all too well.

“What have you done?!”

“Bard’s days of leading this city are over.  From now on, Dale answers to me, or it will be destroyed!”

“You’re a damn fool, Alfrid.”

She pushed the man out of the way as she vaulted over the table and sprinted for the doors to the hall. It was difficult to see through the snowfall, but she could make out the shadows of several dragons in the sky, and one that had landed not far from the Hall, causing damage to the city with its massive body.  Beneath it, several men were at work forcing their way into the dwellings.

“Arm yourselves!”

This could not be all Alfrid’s doing.  He was not clever enough to plan and execute something like this. Somewhere the man had found help. 

Her cry drew the attention of the vandals nearest her, and she launched herself at the closest, taking him to the ground and drawing her knife across his throat.  She relieved the dead man of his sword and swung it to face the men who came for her.  The first of the group lunged for her before dancing back.  This one thought himself a fighter of some sort.  He might be so, but she was enraged at this attack, and the threat to her children.  The men who came to her stood no chance.

To her relief, the men of Dale came pouring out of the hall, and others emerged from the buildings that Alfrid’s men were trying to ransack.  These people would not sit and hide while their city was destroyed. Having disposed of her attackers, Ionien retreated into the hall.  The humans were a far lesser threat than the dragons swooping overhead.  Fire would destroy the city much faster than Alfrid’s goons could.  The dragons must be dealt with first, and to do that she needed her own weapons.  Her sword and her bow waited for her in her room.  

“What’s going on?!”  

The question came from everywhere, and from nearly every woman still in the hall. 

“Dragons!  Take shelter!”

She didn’t slow down as she passed the people still in the hall, making her way to her room.  She shoved the door open and reached for her weapons, slinging the quiver of arrows and bow over her shoulder before grabbing her sword. Once she was armed she immediately returned down stairs, to discover that several of the women were grabbing what weapons they could find. It was good to see that Alfrid had been surrounded by a number of women, none of whom looked inclined to let him go anytime soon. She saw Bain headed for the doorway and immediately moved to intercept him, shoving him back into the room.

 “You need to take your people to shelter!”

“I can fight!”

“I know you can.  But you can’t take on dragons, and I need you to take your people to shelter.  You need to protect your sisters, and my daughter.”

The building shook as the dragon on the ground moved, and Ionien pushed through the women trying to get out.   They wouldn’t be able to take down a dragon, and their being outside would only put them in the way.  She admired their spirit, but until the dragons were taken care of, they would only be a liability.

“Take shelter until the dragons are taken care of!”

“You can’t fight them all on your own!”

The arrows that flew at the men that stalked toward them told her all she needed to know.

“I’m not on my own.”

She would question later how Thranduil knew to come, or even where she was, but for the moment she would simply accept the help of the elves that now bounded into the streets.  As Ionien fought her way through the men in the streets, her focus on the dragon before her, she heard the sound of the horn that signaled battle in Imladris.  Elrond, at least, was here as well. 

With a running leap, she landed on the tail of the creature, and ran up its back until she reached its rider.  She was surprised to see a simple human on the back of the animal.  She’d never heard of humans who controlled dragons, but she could sense nothing from the rider to indicate it was something other.  Her sword took care of the rider, and the dragon.  It shuddered as the blade pierced its neck, falling forward heavily, and barely missed landing on the hall.  She slid do the carcass, already taking aim at the next man to get in her way. Nothing was getting past her to the people inside the building, not when her daughter and grandchildren were in there.

She could not say how long the fighting continued, but she was aware not long in that Thranduil had positioned himself firmly at her side, taking the brunt of those who attacked.  That strategy worked, for a time, until an army of men poured in.  Ionien thought she recognized their clothing as being men from the East.  How had they made the trek so far, and to what possible purpose?  The wealth of Dale wasn’t near enough to entice the Easterlings to cross the Rhun and venture so far west.  There must be some other goal afoot. 

_“Consider their motives later, Ionien.  For the present, worry about destroying them.”_

She could not take that advice.  It simply didn’t add up, and she knew she was missing something.  Why would any Easterling finance Alfrid’s bid to take over Dale? She could not see the benefit of it-----no.  No, it couldn’t be!   One advanced on her and she swiftly ran him through before turning her attention back to the skies.  A number of the dragons weren’t advancing on Dale, they were advancing on Erebor.  That was the prize.  There was gold enough in that mountain, even ten years later, to tempt such an attack. Advancing Alfrid’s attack on Dale was nothing more than a convenient disguise for their real objective.

_“They’re not after the city, they’re after the mountain!!”_

Her accusation directed the elvenking’s attention from her, and moments later she heard him calling for Elrond.  Ionien could see dwarves pouring out of the mountain to defend their home, but they were driven back by the fire that rained down from above.  It was her vision, come to pass. 

Elrond, and even his sons, headed in the direction of the mountain, but they would not reach it in time to prevent its destruction.  There were too many Easterlings, and too many dragons.  The dwarves didn’t stand a chance against an army that commanded dragons.   

_“Ionien, no! You’ll never reach then in time!”_

She ignored Thranduil’s shout in her mind as she turned toward the mountain. She knew she wouldn’t be able to reach them.  She wouldn’t waste her time trying.  Instead she reached out with her mind, hand stretching in the direction of the mountain, as she reached for the minds of the creatures that were attacking the dwarves.  She’d never attempted to control so many minds at once, and the effort was exhausting, but the dark creatures fought against her. She forced her will into their minds, ordering them to disperse.  Seemingly without warning, they broke off and flew away, leaving the field open for the dwarves to counter the Easterlings attack.  When she looked from the sky and the departed dragons she saw that Fili and his army had poured out of the mountain and was now attacking.     

_“What have you done?”_

Thranduil was staring at her with something close to horror, and she whirled away from him, putting her sword to use against the men that swarmed her.  The elven king wasn’t the only one to determine who’d sent the dragons fleeing.  Thoughts of Thranduil faded to the background as the clash of metal filled the air.

She would not know precisely when the women of Dale emerged from the hall to fight, but fight they did.  With the combined forces of human, elf, and dwarf, the invading army would be routed, and those that survived sent running.  Those unfortunates that did not make their escape would be put to the sword by their would-be victims.  Ionien wouldn’t be brought back to full awareness of her surroundings until much, much later, when she heard Tilda calling her name, and saw her granddaughter running from the hall.

“It’s Sigrid!  You have to come, quick!”

Ionien ignored all thoughts of Thranduil, and even the dying battle, as she followed the child back into the hall.  The reason for the urgency was plain enough once she reached the chamber Tilda led her to.  Sigrid had gone into labor, and judging from how close together the moans were she had been so for several hours.  Women were already attending the dwarf queen, including the dwarrowdam who’d accompanied them, and Ionien was grateful for it.  Sigrid hadn’t been alone.  The one who appeared to be a midwife moved along in an unhurried state, exhibiting no worry for the laboring woman, but the peredhel was quick to move to her granddaughter’s side and make her own judgment.

“Oh, Fires, this hurts!!” Sigrid ground out as a contraction passed. The midwife clucked in sympathy, but did not offer anything for the pain.   Ionien reluctantly agreed with the human woman that such a move would only be counterproductive at this stage.  Sigrid was almost fully open; it would not be long before the babe made an appearance, and anything that dulled the pain would only slow the labor down.  Ionien made short work of chasing most of the women from the chamber, especially the younger ones who seemed to think that a delivery was an entertainment.  If Sigrid held to dwarvish traditions, she should only have the women of her family around her, and just possibly a midwife.  There was no reason for anyone else to be present. 

“It’ll be over soon, dearest.  It won’t be long now.”

“That’s what this one said when the fighting first started,” Sigrid ground out, and Ionien shared a look with the midwife. 

“And I’ll tell you again that you’re going remarkably quickly for a first birth, even if it doesn’t feel like it milady,” the midwife answered her calmly, “I’ve known women to labor for more than a day to bring a child into the world.”

“It’s too soon!”

“It’s not so soon that you should have to worry about the health of the babe, now calm yourself.”

It was likely the attack that had brought this on.  If Sigrid had fallen when the dragon attacked the building, that could easily cause her to go into labor. Ionien’s greater concern was whether any other injuries had been sustained, but an inspection revealed nothing.

Time passed, but Sigrid made no further progress.  Sigrid screamed as her body labored, but no child came.  Even the midwife was beginning to look concerned, and her look shared that with Ionien.  There should have been more progress. 

“I’m going to die here. You should send for Fili.”

“You’re not going to die.”

She wouldn’t allow that to happen.   Drained as she already was, she closed her eyes and laid a hand across Sigrid’s stomach and concentrated.   The child was backwards, and having a difficult time passing through the birth canal.   If it wasn’t turned, it might not survive.

Sigrid screamed as heat spread over her and she felt something inside her moving, but with the shift everything suddenly felt better.   She rested through the next contraction, as the midwife instructed, but once she started pushing again, she could feel that things were moving as they were supposed to.  It was strange to feel the child she’d carried passing through her body, but at last it was passing.  A few more pushes, and the midwife was calling that she could see the head.

“One more good push should do it, milady!”

When she felt the next contraction, she pushed as hard as she could, until the child slipped free of her body.   The relief at finally being done was short-lived, as there was no sound coming from the baby.  Why wasn’t it crying? 

“What’s wrong?!”

Ionien left her granddaughter to see to the child.  She could feel the heart beating, but it wasn’t breathing.  She laid a single finger on its tiny chest, and pushed just the slightest spark of her power into it.  The lungs were attempting to draw air, but something was blocking the airway.  She shoved a finger into the babe’s mouth to clear out anything that may have been inside it, then took the child from the midwife and turned it over, laying it on one hand.   She’d done such things on fully grown men, but never on a child.   After only two soft blows to the back she felt the tiny body expand as it pulled in air, and she handed the child back to the midwife, who was watching her in astonishment. Sigrid collapsed back against the bed as she heard an outraged wail, and saw the midwife lifting the child to begin cleaning it.

“What is it?”

“You have a son, Sigrid.”

“A son.”

The baby was much smaller than a fully human child would be, but larger than a dwarf child.  As soon as he was cleaned, he was wrapped in a towel that someone had managed to produce, and handed off to his mother.  The dwarrowdam and midwife went to work cleaning up Sigrid.  If the word of Sigrid’s labor had spread, there would be a number of men waiting for entry to the room, including one terribly anxious husband. If Fili saw her in her current state, he would think the worst. There was no need to torture the poor dwarf in that manner. 

Once Sigrid was arranged and the grisly evidence of her labor disposed of, Ionien stepped out of the room to summon those who waited.  She found Fili and Bard pacing the hall, a number of dwarves and men waiting with them.  Ionien picked out Dís, and if she wasn’t mistaken Dain was waiting with her.  Fili looked as though he might fall over at any moment.

“You have a son, my lord.”

Every eye in the hall turned to her at that announcement, and Fili nearly tripped over his feet in his haste as he tore across the room.

“And Sigrid?”

“Exhausted, but resting. Both of them are perfectly well, and they’re waiting for you.”

Ionien doubted that even another dragon attack would keep the dwarf king from his wife’s room. Bard smiled at her as he followed his son-by-marriage.   The Bowman had his first grandson, and Erebor had an heir.  There would be much celebrating in the days that followed.

Exhausted herself, Ionien stumbled outside.  The sun was well on its way to rising, and once it was Bard and his people would have to begin assessing the damage caused by this night.   She was unsurprised to find Thranduil waiting for her, his look murderous.  She continued past him, making her way down the path toward Lake Town.  There was one more thing she was determined to do before the elven king took her life. Thranduil quickly caught up with her, and took hold of her arm.  She knew not what expression she wore, but it was enough for him to release her, and instead follow as she continued on her way.  He followed her to the very edge of the lake shore.

“Remember that Mellessil is your daughter, Thranduil.  Let this end with me.”

With a low chant, she extended her hand out to the lake.  She’d be lying if she said it didn’t cross her mind to destroy the city, but that was not her intent.  No, she would see the lake freed of the scars it bore from Smaug’s destruction. The effort would be considerable, likely enough to kill her after all she’d already done.  Perhaps it would spare her death at the elvenking’s hand.  She could feel it as the lake was restored, draining her last reserves.  She could feel Thranduil attempting to stop her, and she pushed harder.  She just needed a little more………..

Ionien collapsed, and Thranduil scooped her up into his arms, staring at the lake in wonder.

 

 

 

 

   

 

 


End file.
